


Sketchy (II)

by serpentynka



Series: Sketchy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 years after TRF, Art, Bespoke object porn, Career Change, Case Fic, Clothing Porn, Divergent while compliant, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Family Secrets, Foreign Language, Jealous Sherlock, John's bedtime stories, Johnlock - Freeform, Lots of it, M/M, Marriage, Mycroft's Meddling, Philosophy, Possessive John, Post-Reichenbach, Retirementlock, The end of the Work, Travel, bioterror, choices which are not, mutually respectful sex, serpentynka, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 158,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentynka/pseuds/serpentynka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What (and who) will be left when nobody cares about your Work?   A slow-burn fic with cases, places, mistaken identities, unfair choices, essential changes, violent feels, blatant lies, fearless portraiture, family secrets, high-risk bespoke gifts, durable friendships, bedtime stories, foreign travel and tongues, sickness (and health), and the significance of things which are slow to unfurl -- but cannot be ignored.   Oh, and...porn.</p><p>(A continuation of plot arcs from Part 1 of <em>Sketchy</em>)<br/>When the world’s only consulting detective starts dreaming of bowing out, his dearest person in the world is more than willing to go with him.  It would seem that all that’s left to do is choose a date and leave London.  The machinations that be are never quite what they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At this stage

The hand of Khorazir, cosplaying Sherlock at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, London. Cover art by _hamstermoon_

 

***

 

_Decomposition rates in service conditions have been extrapolated from accelerated aging tests, though polymer durability is a factor of manifold simultaneous stressors (temperature, moisture, oxidation, chemicals).  Global age synergism may occur when immediate -- no.  Concurrent.   When concurrent events lead to aging effects differing from --_

“John,” Sherlock says.

“Hmm?" John has just stood up from his armchair.

“I’ll have something for you to read through this afternoon.”

“Sure.”

“For _Consumer Protection Research and Review_.  The summary of the research in Ireland, in fact.”

“Really?”  John answers.  “Good, love.”

Sherlock glances across the room at his friend, who is now humming to himself and gathering newspaper sections from about the room to use as kindling.  

“I’ll have a job to do for my brother, most likely in Vilnius,” Sherlock tells him, noting the way three pages crumple slightly in John’s tensed fingers before he resumes stacking.  “Lithuania,” Sherlock says, knowing well that his soldier needs no such prompt.

John doesn’t respond and drops the papers in a pile near the hearth; he moves on to books, gathering them all carefully from the tabletops and around the floor next to his armchair. 

“No precise timeframe at this stage,” Sherlock adds.

John chews his lip as he stands and straightens his back.  “Hmm.”  He pivots on his heel and takes four volumes upstairs to his room.  Soon, Sherlock hears wardrobe doors slamming and other sounds that suggest active order-making under the influence of strong emotion.  He rubs his fingers together and resumes typing:   _Which differ from -- applied sequential stress factors in -- simulated -- Rot!  Sequential stress factors applied._

John shakes out a woolen cardigan and drops it face-down on his bed, crossing its arms violently before halving it, flipping it and setting it in a gaping drawer.  _We’re all playing pieces.  A bloody game.  Pawns.  No, not even pawns.  Sherlock would be a knight.  His irregular range of movement is useful early in the game.  Damn it!  Quite useful to protect the heavy players at the end._ The place-putting remarks that Mycroft regularly subjects him to have done nothing to dissuade him from his feelings toward what this meddling elder sibling portrays as _a high-functioning inconvenience._   _‘But you know what he is’._   _Arsehole, and what would you know?_  

To one who senses John’s discomfort (and Sherlock certainly does) at the thought of 'work' for Mycroft, it comes as no surprise that he dislikes the mention of _Vilnius_.  An autumn trip in Austria had left an indefinable but disagreeable taste in his mouth.  The sketchy details John does know about that strange (and somehow botched) mission have never explained _why_ the Holmes brothers shun the subject of _Vienna_ and why Sherlock had felt impelled to lie about the nature of his work there, to begin with.  John is now huffing and humming to himself angrily; he nearly slams his fingers in his bedside drawer and swears.  At the moment, in fact, John does not have 'mixed feelings' about Mycroft and his demands on his younger brother, which would imply that something beyond _misgiving_ still exists in John’s mind toward the man.

Vilnius, John knows, is the smallish but attractive capital of a Baltic state of no smallish geopolitical importance.  Lithuania joined NATO in its fifth enlargement, has Soviet-built roads wide enough for tank movement, and shares borders with Latvia, Belarus, Poland and Kaliningrad (that tongue of Russian territory with access to the Baltic Sea).  He’d once read a spy novel with a few scenes set in what is presently Lithuania.  However, he is loath to imagine his phoenix taking a bullet to the thigh as he rushes ( _alone, the sole survivor, with a mere third of the relevant microfilm in a hidden pocket_ ) under heavy fire through a wheat field, crawling bloodied and exhausted to a nearby home, landing in the eager arms of a lonely farmer’s wife, whom he fucks madly in gratitude, in an attic, once he has recovered.

_Nah.  Never.  He lands in the arms of a country doctor, who dresses his wound and keeps him hidden in his own bed.  Strokes his chest to calm him every night before running his tongue gently over his long neck -- hmm -- they sleep side by side and their hands explore each other’s hard bodies.  One night the enemy agent roams the field again and the doctor picks the fucker off.  With a musket.  Blows a hole in his chest as wide as his fist.  When the thigh wound is mended and that gorgeous creature is well and can climb stairs again they go for a hot fuck in the attic -- on some furniture there.  A chair at the window, yeah -- he would ask for it at the window -- the doctor pushes him over a chair on his knees, holds his good thigh and listens to him beg -- say it, just say it, love --_

“John.”  Sherlock is in the doorway, looking in on him; he had somehow padded up the stairs without allowing a single floorboard to betray his ascent.

 _Christ._   John’s ears have gone deep pink.  “Uhm, yeah?”

Sherlock’s eyes sweep over him.  “Well.  There are sandwiches in the kitchen.”

“Are there, then.  Good.”  John flashes a weak smile. 

“Mmm.”  Sherlock folds his hands behind his back.  _Interesting._  “Vilnius,” he ventures, coming closer to the bed where John has been folding clean clothes.  “Erotic?”

“N -- yeah,” John answers.  _Why the hell not, actually._ “Sure, yeah.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Thanks.  Yeah.  Some of these are yours,” John says, gesturing at a pile on the bed.  “Here.”  John hands over an armload of paired, folded socks that to Sherlock look all too much like severed hare heads; he will not comment on that.  He has just watched John’s smile become reabsorbed by the same distraction that is straining the rest of his face and mannerisms.  Now he comes around the edge of the bed and Sherlock can smell cold sweat on him; his graying, proud head is bowed just slightly.   _So uneasy, even at this proximity._  John has reached out for Sherlock’s free arm, brushing at it with his knuckles as he bites the inside of his cheek.  Suddenly he nods away whatever he might have said and goes to leave the room, presumably for the sandwiches. 

The black hare-heads seem determined to drop to the floor, one at a time.  “We’ll go together,” Sherlock says after John.  The lack of clear response makes him bite his tongue.   _Obviously._  

John nods again, as he takes the stairs in a rhythmic hurry that is startlingly similar to the pounding in Sherlock’s own ears.

***

Christmas is approaching ( _blaring through speakers, glittering and blinking from windows and dispossessing Londoners of their already-limited reason -- hateful -- !  As per the norm, a near-apocalyptic 12-day countdown has commenced --)_. 

John is also worked up, apparently.  He has just lugged a small but (almost pleasingly) symmetrical potted pine tree upstairs.  He sets it on a kitchen chair, and scoots it near the left window in the living room just behind Sherlock’s armchair; he explains breathlessly, rubbing his hands together, that he plans to give it to a friend in the new year -- perhaps to Will, the orthopaedist, who could plant it at his cottage near Ascot.  For now, John circles it, licks his lips with concentration and turns it about to its best advantage.  Once satisfied, he starts humming as he rifles through a paper bag of decorations he has bought.  Sherlock stands nearby and mentally reviews the six ( _possibly seven_ ) best ways he might refuse to have anything to do with trimming the thing, should he be asked.

“All right,” John sighs, pulling open a package with yardage of a dark blue velvety garland-like material.  He wraps it round the length of the little tree, which Sherlock has already assessed is three feet seven inches in height.  “No lights, you hate them.  Yeah.  Hmmm...hm-hm-hmm....”   John dips his hand into the bag and takes out five gold and blue glass birds which he clips to the tips of branches.  He adds a few small gold glass stars, silver moons and silvered, frosted glass icicles and gives the last star to Sherlock, who forgets the snarky remark he’d had in reserve and hangs it reflexively.  “Oh, and I’ve ordered another thing, it's for you but it hasn’t come yet,” John tells him.  “Should today, finally.  Sign for it?”

“Mmm.”

“And put it on here, somewhere?”

“Okay.”

“Going back out.”

“Okay.”

“Smells nice, doesn’t it.”  John draws a slow breath in through his nose and glances over at his handiwork on the tree.

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock mumbles.

 _Progress_.  “Come.  Come here.”  John holds out an arm and draws Sherlock closer.  “What should I bring you?”

Sherlock swallows and puts his nose in John’s hair.  “Nothing at all.”

“Sure?  Feeling all right?”

“Yes.”  _No._

“Warm,” John remarks, putting the back of his hand against his friend’s neck and forehead, in turn.  He leans forward and kisses Sherlock’s lower lip, pulling it in to suck it for a moment appreciatively.  “Bloody hot, either way.”

 _Yes, you are.  Mmmm._   When he can, Sherlock looks down at John’s face and that is when he catches a subtle disparity:  John’s grip is powerful on his arm (almost painful, just above the elbow) yet his eyes are kind as he pulls away to go.  His fingers trail down and drop to Sherlock’s hand.  His thumb passes over the heavy band on Sherlock’s right ring finger.  He smiles.   _Wears it._  

The _feuilleton_ in the tabloids, inane rhetorical questions and speculation are white noise, John thinks; even the night before, when Sherlock had taken his hand in bed, the metallic contact of their rings, still very new, had sent a shock through him.  (“That,” he’d whispered, "only you.”  Their kisses had been deep and intense; they’d fallen asleep with their lips very close, which had never happened before.)  

Unlike Sherlock, John is no actor; it is perhaps a factor of his own honesty that he remains so readable.  An emotional contrast like the one he is involuntarily showing now tells Sherlock that John is simmering just beneath his affections (his hand is stroking Sherlock’s and his eyes are distracted and dark).  John clears his throat.  “Are you going to the Yard for the --“

 _Ah, of course.  Queen and country, again._  “No.”

“Sure?” John asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Obviously.”

 _England wants you, love.  Go to the sodding press conference!_  “All right.”   _They need you.  Damn it!_

“Calmly, soldier,” Sherlock tells him, and puts his arms around John’s shoulders tightly.  “Dinner in bed.”

John nods. “Sounds good.”   

“Okay.”

John kisses Sherlock’s neck and takes his cheek in his hand.  “So hard to walk out of here,” he says.

“Then don’t.”

“Need to go.  Going.  Love you.” 

***

A small, cube-like parcel comes at two in the afternoon.  The handwritten return address looks exciting:   _Hurt Bombek i Ozdób Artystycznych._ Sherlock scoops up his laptop and looks it up.  He discovers ( _the joy of faux amis aside_ ) that he is most likely holding an ornament made at a family-owned glassblowing firm near Gdańsk, which means, disappointingly enough, that John has _not_ ordered artisan-made explosives for the tree.  Sherlock fetches one of his penknives and slits the outside box cautiously, finding another double-layered carton full of finely shredded newspaper, in which he sees the first glints of something promisingly amber-coloured.  He quickly claws it aside and pulls out a realistically-formed, hand-blown glass honeybee, nearly two inches tall, with etched, semi-translucent colourless glass wings.  The artist had constructed a round, etched glass loop over the bee’s mouth for hanging, by which Sherlock holds it up in the light (dimmed gray by cloud cover) at the living room window.   _Far too attractive for any Christmas tree.  Mmm, John._ He takes it to the mantelpiece and sets it next to the skull.

                _Arrived intact.  SH_

_In lieu of real pine honey :)_

Sherlock erases a reply he has just begun tapping out with his thumb unthinkingly:   _Everything is._

He squeezes his teeth together. 

                _Thank you, John.  SH_


	2. Dangerous to know

The suggestion of dinner in bed has mollified John somewhat, though he is still bewildered that Sherlock doesn’t appear to want _any_ part in the current, rabid public debate over police effectiveness.  John is convinced that Sherlock would have the most consequential input of anyone, alongside the testimonies of victims of recent false arrests and other injustices.  The only consolation is that some of those voices are finally being heard.  

As he walks, John passes an appliance shop in which every telly on display, in a jerky palette of colour variations, is set to the portly form of Barry Allen (Greg Lestrade’s thorny superior officer) as he takes his first questions from journalists. 

John doesn’t break his quick step getting past it; it feels like only yesterday when Mycroft had informed him he’d been exploring ways to divert Sherlock from his close involvement in police work, going as far as to suggest that _love_ (his relationship with Sherlock) has rendered the detective less reliable; whether the elder Holmes brother truly has blocked off Sherlock’s career permanently, replacing it with episodic puzzles and avenues of chemical research, remains quite unclear to John.  It certainly looks that way.  It pulls up a reserve of possessive rage in John every time he thinks about it.   _Let the man be,_ he thinks furiously to himself (even now), not knowing that Sherlock, whose nerves are slowly being abraded thin under Mycroft’s surveillance apparatus, has already demanded nearly the same, for _him_.   

Sherlock’s working life had practically ceased to exist in the course of a few weeks, coinciding enough with John’s recovery from his street accident and concussion that he wonders if he might have added impetus to the speed of change.  He knows that in his own pain and confusion he’d missed some important things.  And something of critical significance must have gone down, because Sherlock almost uncomplainingly focuses his concentration on reports, experiments and papers, at home.  He occasionally draws; he reads voraciously, most frequently forensics literature and beekeeping instructions.  He is attentive to John, even if he does not immediately vocalise everything he needs or wants.   _And I hope I’m not missing something major, now.  Vilnius?_ Either way, John is doing well.  Recently, it has happened that he can go up to five days without experiencing pressure-related headaches and feels nearly himself again, even if he is fatigued and dizzy some evenings after work.

His present state of lightheadedness, truth be told, has been brought on by a rush of arousal and adrenaline on the Tube.  He’s nearly missed the change at Bond Street, preoccupied by a story he’s been working through (a fragment centred on a frot under thin blankets after lunch with Sherlock in Regent’s Park).  He suspects he may have hit upon one of the detective’s fantasies.  He is not entirely wrong, though dinners in bed, which Sherlock refers to jokingly as _sex picnics,_ are not dress rehearsals for the _al fresco_ delights that John imagines.  Were Sherlock to have his way (outdoors, and entirely), the setting would be a remote, wild place, far from London.  And food, while a realistic pretense for being in grass with blankets, would not necessarily be part of the equation, excepting a small jar of light, viscous honey. 

John trots up the stairs at Tottenham Court Road, humming as a pelting rain taps against the bill of his wool cap; he ducks underneath a black overhang and waits for a moment, nose wrinkling in the damp, before darting up the road to Great Russell Street.  In several minutes he is in front of the place he wants and he licks his lips and smiles wryly to himself.  He pushes open the ( _Jesus -- grass green --_ ) door of _L. Cornelissen & Son’s_ and sniffs as warmer, drier air hits his cold nose once he is well inside.  He pulls off his sopped cap and looks about the shop.  

He only knows of the place thanks to Alex.  He'd planned to choose a Christmas present for Sherlock with him earlier in the morning; instead, when he’d arrived at the artist’s flat, he'd discovered that Alex was ill.  He had quite unaccountably brought a potted Christmas tree up some stairs from a cab, nearly fainting at his own doorstep for his efforts; he’d begged John to take it for himself and Sherlock to Baker Street, instead.  (“I won’t go with you to the art supply shop, I’m so sorry, John.  And don’t tell Sherlock a word of this,” he’d said, “But, please, if you would.   _Have_ it!”).  A few ornaments from a florist’s near Alex’s flat had given John a good start in decorating.  Sherlock, fortunately, had kept his tongue behind his teeth at the right time. 

“Afternoon,” John sighs, looking about the so-inscribed _Artists’ Colourmen_ at cabinets and rows of jars, pencils, paints and papers. 

The young bloke at the cash desk is beaming.  “I follow your blog, Doctor.  Sorry -- “ he stammers, turning to another employee, who is bent over a newly-opened box filled with paintbrushes, which appear to have been shipped in an unsorted heap.  “Could you, just, could you take Doctor Watson to the back to look through our stock?” he asks her.   

“Ta, yeah, I’d like some help choosing something.”  John rubs his chin.  He is entirely oblivious to the fact (as one generally is in moments like these) that he is about to meet a fascinating woman.  

***

John returns from his errands just before six; Sherlock has fish fillets in breading, baked potatoes with cream, and a carrot-apple salad with oil and pepper, to be warmed and eaten in bed, he insists, followed by herbal tea and biscuits.  John claims it is fantastic and that they would hardly get anything nearly as amazing at a bistro.  Moreover, he points out, Sherlock would have to re-button his shirt before going in -- a shame, when he is looking _so_ good, John tells him, eyes darkening dangerously.  He would _not_ be able to lean over and stroke or lick the right nipple peeking from the edge of Sherlock's shirt, and he wants to spend plenty of time expressing his appreciation (he sips his tea) as _soon_ as he finishes.   _Because,_ _very well done, love.  Delicious._  

Sherlock melts a bit at that, or perhaps he is being warmed by the path in his mind’s eye of John’s tea ( _intentionally drinking slowly.  Finish it, soldier_ ) in its descent through his warm lips, along his tongue, lean neck and chest ( _Why still in a shirt?_ ) and stomach, which is full now but fit and inviting.   _Inviting an investigative hand_.  _Well done, you say, and delicious?_

Sherlock has advanced quickly from his early, humble attempts at sandwich-making and John is grateful for his friend's emerging talents.  His own culinary efforts are quite different; he excels at combining leftovers and odd bits into stews and baked dishes and rarely emerges with the same food twice.  Sherlock has characterised it as _approaching ingredients with much the same situational idealism one might use in writing up a story_.  John had reluctantly asked his friend a few days before if he minds doing so much of their cooking (easily more than half); Sherlock had replied instantly that online food orders allow for extensive tracking by which he knows they’ve saved an average of three hundred and fourteen quid monthly by cooking unprocessed foods rather than eating elsewhere.  He had spared John a spelling-out that he wants very badly to stay well (and keep John well) remarking instead that the oxidised oils in take-away repel him.  John had replied to that with generous, well-placed kisses.  

***

“We’d go to the park with a basket of food and some wine and have dinner.  You would be stretched out on blankets in the grass in the shade right next to me with your eyes shut.  Maybe almost asleep.  At least you’d look like you are, so I’d sort of look at you there.  When you watch someone in their sleep it works on your feelings even more,” John tells Sherlock, gazing at him from where he is sitting, cross-legged on their bed.

“Watch _someone_.” Sherlock closes his eyes.   

“They look peaceful.  Even when you know that the person you’re looking at is ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know’,” John says, surveying the top of the pants he is about to remove from Sherlock’s hips.  He leans over and hooks a thumb into them.

“Oh.”

“That was about Lord Byron.”  John pulls at the pants and smiles when Sherlock helps him tug them off without even opening his eyes.

“I don’t --“

“Manuscripts and effects.  It was in the paper,” John says.

“Manuscripts?”

“There’s an exhibit on, yeah.  The poet?  Slept in a gondola to get away from one woman in Venice, I think.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock opens his eyes suddenly and cocks an eyebrow at that, as if he were filing the idea away as potentially viable.

“So.  I’m watching you there in the grass, imagining all the things I might do.  Tickle you, like.  No?  Or, I could start by opening your shirt, just so I could see your skin, or I might pet you.  Wake you up in a while to go home.  And take you straight to bed, because looking at you there is.  Hmmm.  Impossible without having some of you for myself.  Or, we could stay.  And I could cover you in a blanket.” John moves closer.  “I wonder if you’d like me to -- “ he murmurs, his hand thieving between Sherlock’s thighs, “-- touch you --“

“Y -- es.”

“ -- At the park, just like -- _this_ , when you’re _almost_ asleep.”

“Mmmm.  Yes.”

“I could bring you round, there.  Maybe we’d get away with it.”  _Films on every portal in the free world.  Nah.  We’d get away with it somehow._   “Nobody would have to see.  If we weren’t moving a lot.  If I used, well.  To the point, with my thumb.  Know how.”  _Like this, you gorgeous thing.  Make you come like mad, there._

“Hhhnn.” 

“Under the blankets and people would be walking nearby and they would think we were sleeping in the shade.  Resting.  And I’d pump your cock until you -- “

“ _Hnnngh....”_   _Perfect._

“Like now, yeah.  Like this.  But in the middle -- you like this, yeah.  In the middle of the grass, love.  Imagine.  It’s like they all don’t even _exist_ , and it’s just you, the sound of _you_ , coming.  In my hand.  The way you’re breathing.  And the look on your face.  I was thinking about it all afternoon, seriously, not easy to walk around London like that.”

“No?”  Sherlock puts a hand over John; John’s pants are (pleasingly) damp against his palm.  

“Don’t feel why?” John asks, as Sherlock’s fingers start working his pants down.  “Need you.”

John, this turned on, smells (and tastes) very much like musky, soft grass _, just there_ \-- Sherlock decides he will give extra attention to that place with his lips; tonight it will be all the sweeter to imagine blankets and shaded grass all around them, though spring is so far off.   (The pants are dropped aside.)  “Jesus, feels _so_ good,” John groans, as what seems like a tentative taste of his thigh becomes wetter pressure and a nip of teeth, followed by more tasting and tonguing that he would swear is sweeping through his entire nervous system.  “You always -- _you_ \-- Chriiist -- your -- _tongue_.  Love, you’re -- so good, oh _God_ \-- _ahh_ \--“ he gasps, nearly rhythmically now.  Sherlock smiles.   _Fascinating_ \-- _his entire body seems to be wringing itself of breath under pressure -- excellent._ John buries his fingertips in Sherlock’s mad hair, wanting to pet it; he finds that his fingers want only to grasp and contract; it will hurt; he lets go and his hands curl around bunched blankets.  “Ahhh -- yeah, love, so -- hmmmm, right there, yeah, God, _yeah_.  I’m -- Sherl -- ahh -- _ahhhh_ \-- hmmm, _good_ \-- Sher -- love -- Sh -- hhnnn, _ahhh_ \-- _ahh_ _yeah_ \-- hmmm.  Christ.  Wanted -- this -- God.  Ah -- hmmm, I love you.  _So_ much -- so much, beautiful.  Do you know?”

 _Brilliant_.  “Yes.”

“Need -- a minute.”  John pulls Sherlock to his mouth, sliding his tongue over his friend’s wet, swollen lips.  “Love you.” 

That first surge in his chest whenever their lips and tongues make contact like this never changes -- it is electric and intense.  John groans quietly at the hotness of it, the taste of himself in Sherlock's mouth and the thought of what is coming.  John is slowly being pushed onto his side, though the long hand he sees on his thigh is not grasping at him to turn him round, but caressing him in a way that John wants to follow.  Sherlock has also taken some of John’s hair in his lips, at his nape, and is licking it and smelling the tang of sweat in it; he lets his cock trail over John’s arse and prod at his sac and thigh, as if silently daring John to doubt how badly he is wanted.    

It will be quick but neither of them needs more; Sherlock’s breathing is wild against John’s neck; he seems close to giving voice to the strokes of his fingers over John’s chest and stomach ( _“Mmm -- my --“_ ) just before John takes his hand and licks circles against his palm, sending an astonishing flicker of pleasure to his groin; he hisses and pauses, teeth set, drawing out from John as his eyes drop closed and he bites into his lips, kneading them in his teeth; he pulls his hand away from John’s mouth, makes a deep, sudden sound and comes in his fist.  John turns back to him and gives him a shirt; his kisses are filled with _didn’t have to stop, not at all._  Sherlock curls up with his head on John’s warm chest until his breathing has evened out again; soon, he gets up to scrub his hands.

 _Loves me.  Mine.  My last.  Mmmm, John -- think.  Think.  Think._ John interrupts Sherlock's fragmented thoughts with a knock on the bathroom door; Sherlock blinks and shuts off the taps; he’d been absorbed in the warmth streaming over his fingertips and had forgotten himself.  “Yes,” he blurts, quickly, shaking the water off his hands.  Their eyes meet in the mirror as John steps in; Sherlock leans down to kiss John’s temple, twice, before letting him by to reach the sink. 

Sherlock has scored the path of his kisses with a few bites and nail marks; one is more visible now on John’s throat, close to his collarbone; as he washes up, his eyes fall on it in the mirror and he rubs over it a bit with his thumb.  (It is his first love bite from Sherlock.)  If he unbuttons his shirt collar at all the next day -- _so what._   He blows a deep, moist breath through his nose and smiles to himself.  _You amazing creature.  Hmmm._

He dries off his hands and holds his left hand up to check the engraving on his ring for residual soap.  He gazes down at it for a long moment and swallows.  Earlier, at the art supply shop, John had made a new acquaintance.  His mind drifts to her now.   

Her name is Kadi.  He has her mobile number in his wallet and is summoning the nerve to call her.


	3. See me off

It is just after eleven at night and Sherlock is seated cross-legged in his armchair with his laptop balanced on his thighs.  He plans to settle in at the table and finish outlining a new text tonight, this time a more philosophical work with the less-than-satisfactory working title of _Virtual Autopsy:  Primary or Ancillary?_ For now, he is choosing a set of three major points -- and watching John over the top edge of his screen.  His soldier is across from him, close (Sherlock had moved their armchairs nearer each other, again) with one heel extended and resting by his friend’s knee, absorbed in a novel.  He is licking his lower lip.

“Of course.  The air in the flat is dry.  From the fire,” Sherlock remarks aloud, mid-thought.

“Hmmm?” John looks up, startled.  “Oh.  We don’t have to burn anything more tonight, if you --”

“No, no.  I meant, your lips are cracked,” Sherlock says. 

John has just poked his tongue out to lick them again.

“Just enough that if I bit your lip firmly, I could taste your blood.  There in the middle.”

John’s eyebrows seem to leap.  Sherlock adds, his eyes fixed intently on John’s, “When you cut yourself, on several occasions, for instance, I’ve smelled it or tasted it.  But not yours _and_ mine.  I was just imagining the taste if our lips were bleeding together.”

John puts his book aside for a moment and rests his left temple against his fingers, to rub his brow bone.  “You mean, until it hurts?” he finally asks, dropping his fingers over the arm of his chair and drawing circles over it. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately.  “Not necessarily,” he finally says, and smiles, but it is not to offset his words. 

It never is.  Perhaps that is why the hair on John’s neck is already prickling.  “You know, there was one time when we’d got bashed up and both had bloody mouths.  Off Sloane Square, when you’d been going through the hotel bins.  Hah.  And you found the redraft of that -- makeshift will.  That was an odd one.”

The corners of Sherlock’s lips quirk.  “But you were _not_ inclined to come anywhere near me, perhaps because I smelled like the fermented fluids that were draining from said bins.  You’d just pulled me down into it on my hands and _knees_.”  

“You’d have got hit by that rock.”  John sniffs a laugh and stands up from his chair; he stretches his back before putting out a hand to his friend.  “Come.”

“Briefly,” Sherlock says, kissing the inside of John’s wrist.  “Writing.”

“Hmmm.  That feels --”

“Labial impressions are unique to each person.”

“Yours are for sure.  Show me?” 

“Cheiloscopy.  I’ve rarely run across a need for the study of a lip print.  Usually chromatography testing on the lipstick residue is sufficient.  But at times, when I consider the plasticity of -- oh.  Yes?” 

John snaps up an empty glass he’d set on the floor and his novel and backs away toward the kitchen, where he smiles invitingly.  “Yeah.  See me off.”

“Of course.”

When John asks to be _seen off_ , he is referring loosely to a story that had passed between them some days before, in the middle of the night, when John couldn’t fall sleep and Sherlock couldn’t settle on a more direct way to introduce his affections.  Sherlock had told it so engagingly that John would gladly listen to it again, and he considers asking for it. 

Once he has scrubbed his face and pulled on pyjama bottoms, he climbs into bed, rolls over onto his side and tilts his novel toward the bedside lamp; part of him still wants to get through the next half-page and discover who the villainous car-bomber (most likely) is, though as soon as he hears running water in the kitchen followed by Sherlock’s steps in the hallway, he realises his stomach is quivering with anticipation and his blood is rushing.  _Everywhere_.  Sherlock crawls in behind him beneath the blankets and leans over him; he finds John half hard, waiting for something hot and decisive to set him off.  Before John can mention the story, Sherlock has grasped at his cheek to turn his face toward his mouth.  The book has hit the floor with a thud and John is letting his lips be pushed apart by his man’s thumb, which is tugging his chin downward.

Sherlock wants to taste John’s mouth more thoroughly (if it takes a small bite to have more of him on his tongue, he will try).  He slides one arm around John’s chest and pushes his other hand through his hair; John looks as though he wants to speak again, but before he can, Sherlock leans down and takes his cracked lip between his teeth and swipes his tongue along it.  John sucks in a rapid hiss and nips back, clawing his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s neck as he feels his friend about to climb on top of him, pushing him onto his back.  Sherlock covers John’s mouth with his own completely and pushes his tongue inside to run it against John’s.  John’s cock seeps, heavy and warm against Sherlock’s thigh as he ruts along it in a slow rhythm -- an offer, to bury those same strokes deep in the heat of him.  John licks up against Sherlock’s lips and while they are already lightly bruised and very wet; they will not bleed, tonight.  Instead, they will drive John to distraction; his hips jerk as he reaches down to free all of his straining erection from the light flannel and the sounds he makes in his impatience are encouraging, lustful and loving all at once.  He wants the suction and warmth to last far longer.  Longer, more.  But he cannot hold off -- it's far too much -- and he explodes down Sherlock’s ( _gorgeous_ ) throat, covers his own watering eyes and giggles, “How.  You.  I love you -- love you so much."

"I love you, soldier." 

"Come.  Let me.  No?  Wh -- why not?  Sure?  _Very_  sure?  Hmmmmm.”John exhales softly into their kisses; this way, they share many breaths before Sherlock finally presses a single, small kiss on John’s nose and fingers the raw split in his lower lip. “Sleep well.”

“Write tomorrow.  Sod it.”

“No, no.”

John reaches out to pet a wild curl at Sherlock’s temple.  For a moment he seems about to give in and stay but remarks, “Mm.  Distracted.”

“What’s it about, this time?”

“Oh.  So-called virtual autopsies and the extent to which they may or may not replace traditional obduction.”

“Right, yeah.” John rubs his eyes and sighs as he yawns.  "That's tricky."

“Any thoughts?”

 _Now?  Sure._  “Uhm.  Nah.  Well.  Yeah, let me think.  Not easy.  The religious side?  If you haven’t mentioned it already.”

“Religious?  Ah.”

“If your beliefs get in the way of agreeing to -- well.  An invasive dissection with organ removal, yeah?”  John traces a finger over Sherlock’s lips, which are pressed closed.  “You can get loads of information from CTs or MRIs.  Just, it might not be exactly what you want.”

“That’s the thesis I'm putting forward.”

“Yeah, a fine line between obstructing justice and holding to beliefs.  Like in transplantology, or in vitro, transfusions, some medicines, you know, you run up against issues with certain groups of patients.  That can get touchy.  I don’t know, I can’t think.”

“Mmm.”   

“Molly would be the better one to ask.  Hey.  You look tired.”

“I’m not.”  Sherlock is fibbing, there, but is unable to shut off his brain enough to sleep; he pets John and places a soft, salty kiss on his cheek.  “Goodnight, John.”

***

“Holiday spirit,” Kadi says, glancing at a long line at a cafe where she has just met John for coffee.  “Or else it’s flagging and needs a fix, too.  Maybe espresso for me?”

“Sure.  Double?” John asks.

Kadi has a Malian mother from Bamako; her English father works in the City.  She is young, sharp and turns heads; John is used to seeing that at Sherlock’s side, enough that he doesn’t notice it at first; truth be told, he is making his own study of her.  She is nearly as small as his friend Linda Snow, but her ribcage and waist are impossibly narrow, while her breasts are full and round by contrast.  Her low, even voice is as magnetic as her looks.  She has skin the soft colour of milky coffee, dusted with bold, warm freckles; her eyes are slanted and truly almond-like, in a startling shade of lucent green that looks to have been achieved with coloured lenses, but is entirely natural.  John spends some time examining her sharp, hollow cheekbones, which remind him vaguely of Sherlock’s but are narrower and in contrast with a small, rounded nose and delicate chin.  Her lips are glossy and full; her front teeth stand apart a bit and her ears are strained by the weight of the large earrings she seems to prefer; she needlessly hides them under convolutions of ruddy, flat braids that end just beyond where they are gathered at the back of her slim neck in a scarf tie.  She has long, thin hands with nails painted nearly the same shade of green as her eyes.  She appears to have a few ribbons worked into her hair that match, as well.  That, and her undoubtedly bespoke clothing (John will discover that she weaves, designs or sews nearly all of her own clothes), all give her an otherworldly air, _like a dangerous prophetess from a good sci-fi film._ John shakes his head at himself.   _What’s wrong with me._

“So,” he says, feeling he ought to speak (quickly) after a few too-long moments of gaping and assessing (deductions on a woman like her are impossible to finish, he thinks).  “You say you’re a student of -- textile arts?  What does that entail, exactly?” _Tailoring?_   John is almost tempted to take out a notebook and start writing notes. 

But Kadi is not the client, here.  She tips her head to the side and some of her braids begin to slip behind her shoulder, revealing three tiny freckles in a perfect line and another to the side, suggestive of a constellation on her neck.  John decides that he is taking in too much at once ( _staring like a git again_ , _like nearly every other chap in the vicinity_ ) and tries to listen to her reply:  “If all goes well I’ll choose between an internship in costume textiles for a theatre company, or design fabrics for a label, hard to say, now.  I’m working on an MA project for May, about sort of throw-away, single-season designs juxtaposed with truly hand-woven, handmade materials.  What do you think?”

“Not...sure I know, to be honest,” John declares after several seconds, sucking in a breath and smiling winningly.

“That’s okay.  But the show is called ‘Wearable State of Mind’, part of a project my professor has been working on in protest of sweatshop fashion.”

“A wearable state of mind, that’s, well, nice.”  John winces at how he sounds.  “Now about your state of mind, well, that’s...always subject to change, so, removable as well?  Is that -- sort of it?”

“Yeah, exactly.  See?  You get it.  It’s about awareness.”

“Well, that’s true.  Nothing is permanent.  Whatever is wearable is -- removable.  Right.  Clothing is -- removable,” John stutters, his ears burning, and decides he should consider looking for a diversion.  

One has already come unnoticed, to _him_ , as it happens. “Good afternoon, Kadi, John,” he hears.  Alex is standing at the side of their table with a cup of herbal tea in a take-away tumbler in his hand.  He looks completely exhausted, though his eyes are shining, apparently with interest. 

“Hello, Alex,” Kadi says and smiles sweetly up at him.  “How’re you?” she croons.

“Hey,” John greets him with a handshake.  “Christmas shopping, then?”

“No, I found myself -- entirely without cerulean,” he explains, more to Kadi, who appreciates that type of predicament, far more than John can even pretend to at the moment.  The artist swallows and looks down at him.  “Well, then.  Did you manage to choose Sherlock -- well.  Something?”

“I did, yeah.” John smiles. Meaningfully.  

“Lovely,” Alex says, by now a bit warmer in the cheeks.  “Got to run, sorry.  Take care.”

“All right.”

“Greet him from me.  Happy holidays, Kadi.”

“Thank you.  Merry Christmas,” she answers, turning her entrancing gaze on John again once Alex has walked out the door.  John reaches for his tea and nearly misses the cup; Kadi receives a text, glances over at it and stuffs her phone into her purse. 

“So, John,” she says.  “You said that it’s -- been a while -- ?”

“Yeah.  Uhm.” John sighs.  _I could be your father._   “I need to get sort of, into the mindset, I guess.”

“That’s only natural.”

“Involves more than I’d expected, so just warning you, I might not be very, well, responsive.  But, yeah.”

“There’s no rush, is there?  I’ve nowhere to be for now.  You?”

“N -- well, no.” John glances at his watch and presses his lips together.

“Want to go somewhere quieter, soon?”

“Yeah.”

***

Alex has dropped by Baker Street to see Sherlock briefly; initially he has a cab waiting downstairs but decides to accept Sherlock’s offer of high tea, as it is nearly five.

“I saw John again on Tuesday,” Alex says, as they take up their cups at opposite sides of the living room table.  “Did he say?”

 _No._ “Mmm.”   _Saw John -- again?_

“I actually hadn’t realised we have a mutual acquaintance, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles obscurely; his eyes narrow.

“And, so?  How are things?  The usual?” Alex asks, glancing over at the Christmas tree in the corner of the room, behind Sherlock’s shoulder.

“’Two of us, one feeling’.”

“That’s -- quite profound.”

“It should be.  It was over a urinal at the British Library,” Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs, and then snorts as Alex’s mouth falls open.

“Oh, Lord, you’re horrid!” Alex huffs, his teacup clinking onto the tabletop, missing his saucer by a half-inch or so. 

Sherlock exhales sardonically as Alex tries to collect himself.  “John is well, which is what I presume you’re asking.  He and several colleagues would like to open a clinic.  And they are exploring avenues for equipment leases and choosing a good location.  They are busy with that.”

“Are they, then?”

“And you, meanwhile, have given your Christmas tree to John and have come here to give me a key to your flat.  You’re feeling significantly worse, or perhaps the joy of the season is as corrosive to your well-being as it is to mine.”

“Now, John told you that,” Alex says, waving a pale finger.

“Why would he have to?”

“You might explain why he _wouldn’t_ have to,” Alex says, skeptically. 

“It is ridiculously simple.  John doesn’t care for that type of spruce.  Moreover, he wouldn’t have had the impertinence to buy a tree for _me_.  I despise Christmas trees, and the only reason I didn’t ask him to remove it is because I could see immediately he hadn’t chosen it, he’d _received_ it.  Shortly afterward, I deduced that it had been yours.  How?  The receipt in the bag with decorations he’d bought -- because we didn’t have any, obviously.  From a florist’s on your street, between your building and the nearest Tube station, just before he’d got fed up and taken a cab home.  He was preoccupied when he brought the tree inside and went back out immediately afterward.  Concern _and_ interrupted plans -- he’d gone to see you, perhaps because you were unwell, and you’d given up your tree, which he’d been unable to refuse.  And for reasons unknown, I have been compelled to deduce all that myself.”

“I’ve no idea what to say,” Alex says, quite truthfully.  “Now, how did you know I have a key for you?”

“I know a Bramah key in a man’s pocket,” Sherlock replies,  “When I see one.”

“Sophie is in Scotland for several weeks with her sister.” Alex takes a thick, cylindrical key from his pocket with a delayed smirk.

“No, no.  I’ll pick the lock, I just need to think it through.”

“Keep it for me, please.  I’m afraid --”

“Precisely.  Why is that?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m afraid because being cut into is scary,” Alex says, hesitantly.

“ _Petitio principii?_   Honestly, your timing, Alex.”

 _“Take_ it.  I’m going in tomorrow for more tests and then they plan to starve me, and do more, if you can imagine.”

“I can.”

“Have you -- had --“ Alex looks at him inquiringly.

Sherlock frowns.

“Was it serious?  Tell me it wasn’t," Alex says.

“Experiences are hardly transferable.  I won’t bore you with specifics,” Sherlock replies.

“Bore me,” Alex retorts.

“No.  The only significant feature was the discomfort of understanding that I would leave someone behind.”

Alex bites the inside of his cheek and sips his tea reflectively.  “Oh, dear.  I see.  But having no one to leave behind is a discomfort, as well.  It’s a certain failure on my part, as a man.”

“Causally, it is not --”

“Sherlock, don’t.  It’s true.”

They look at each other until Alex drops his eyes to the tabletop.

 _“Life's a pudding full of plums, care's a canker that benumbs, wherefore waste our elocution on impossible solution?”_  Sherlock says and waves a hand as if to bat the impending nausea away from them both.

Alex breaks into a glowing, embarrassed grin.  “ _Life's a pleasant institution.  Let us take it as it comes,”_  he replies.

“Eloquent.” Sherlock smiles and looks down at the Bramah key next to Alex's saucer; he reaches for it.  

“Thank you.”

“Mmm.”


	4. Master and slave

Although John is knackered from work and errands, that is not the main reason he crashes into bed before ten thirty without a book.  He is waiting impatiently for Sherlock, who has promised to retell the story that had captured his imagination several nights before, about a master and his devoted slave.  When he comes, he is wrapped tightly in his russet dressing gown and settles in next to John, who kisses him and unknots the gown for himself.

Sherlock begins, in a dark, slow voice, as if he were reading:  “A crowd surrounds the warrior whenever he departs for battle.  The countryside is being encroached upon by aggressive tribes.  The empire has been divided and is in rapid decline.  Thus the women who see him off seem in constant mourning.  The elders fall silent and refuse to offer counsel.  His younger peers cower, afraid to be called to arms."

John grunts at that and puts a hand over Sherlock's chest, letting his fingers into the gown front. 

"His lover, however, smiles.  One day, the warrior is struck by how foreseeable the emotions in those he leaves behind really are.  Naturally, he grows suspicious of his lover, who seems to take pleasure in his departure and does not hide the fact.  ‘Why does he see me off with a smile?’ he asks himself, and decides to challenge him about it when they see one another again.  As it happens, the warrior _owns_ the man.  He is a slave, who comes from a distant settlement that the warrior has never seen.  In a very real way, he symbolises the lands that the empire is losing hold of.  His noble looks and wild spirit, both so attractive to the warrior, are features of those peoples who are chipping at the borders of the decadent state.  It troubles him at times, and he feels at odds with himself:  he should find those things hateful yet he loves his slave as though he were part of his own body.  He confronts him, nonetheless.  He takes his lover by the arms and pins him to a wall as though he would gladly break him in half.  ‘You claim to care for me and you share my bed.  Yet only _you_ smile when I leave for battle,’ he says.  ‘Tell me!  Do you despise me so much?'  It is the most treacherous of questions to ask.”

“Yeah,” John says in a gravelly voice at his side.  “No right answer.” 

Sherlock smiles and pets John’s fringe.  “In truth, this powerful and influential master is the love of his subject’s life, and the sincerity of his feelings makes him all the more afraid to answer.  His hesitation looks ambiguous at best.  The master observes his internal struggle and shouts, ‘You come to see me off, and the last thing I see is your smile!  Every time.  Finally, I dreamed that you were happy to see me off.  Is it true?  Am I right?’  The slave replies, ‘No.  It tears me to pieces whenever you leave.  I begin dreading it every time you arrive from a journey.'  The master shouts, 'Unreasonable!"  The slave puts his head down and says, "Yes.  But you asked why I smile when you leave.  You see, when you leave me, for as long as I can bear it, I imagine that you are about to turn and say, ‘this time I will stay’.  When you do not, I imagine you returning quickly, saying, ‘I couldn’t bear to stay away long’.  Or -- when you still have not, I imagine how you will return, someday, and greet me warmly, and still love me as well as you always have.’  The master is confused by that answer and storms away to think.  When he returns, he tells his devoted slave, ‘I have considered what you said.’ ‘Yes, master.’  ‘My decision?  You will never see me off again.’  And the slave is terrified; he is certain he has revealed too much; he averts his face and waits to be humiliated and sent away.  His heart is breaking to pieces inside of him and his loyalty looks to have been his ruin.  But what he hears next changes everything.”

“Hmmm,” John sighs, because this is his favourite part. 

“It is this.  The master tells him:  ‘I will never leave you again.  You will accompany me in my travels and in battle.’  The master became a great general in terrible times and the slave was his constant companion and advisor, until years later they were cut down in a battle turned slaughter and died in each other’s arms.  They were bound together with cords and burned on a pyre as one, and their ashes were gathered and dropped into the Sea, together.  Poets sang of their love, death and burial for centuries, long after their names were forgotten.”

“That’s -- incredible.”

“Mmm.”  Sherlock reaches over and switches off the light on his bedside table.

“Come, beautiful.  So -- about the warrior and his devoted slave.  Uhm.”

Sherlock looks up in the darkness from his pillow.  “Yup.”

“They had bloody hot sex in the previous version.  The vineyard, then that outdoor bath.”

“True.”

“And they didn’t -- fall in battle.  Or get burned on a pyre,” John adds, his warm fingers wandering down Sherlock's stomach.  “Who’s the master?”

“An imagined Roman on the territory of what would be Germany, now.  Oh.  Concerning -- I don’t relate our partnership to those categories.”

“Too bad.  Kidding.  What.”

“No, no.  You’d be a remarkable slave, I’ve often thought so.”

“Oi!”

***

“I forwarded you the corrections on that likelihood-ratio-model paper?  Posterior something?”

“Statistics, John.   _Uninformative posterior distributions:  a response to Baynesian approaches to likelihood ratios in modeling wrongful deaths_ ,” Sherlock replies, humming as he adjusts his laptop screen, which he is staring at intently.

“The title sort of -- leads you on and then you get loads of equations.  Hopes dashed on that one by the third paragraph," John says, with a snort.

Sherlock can’t suppress a smile.  “Interesting.”

“What.”

“Well.  You tell me.  You’ve never wanted to give me any background on these photographs, so I’m filling in my own.  Entertaining, admittedly, but I would prefer _your_ narration.”

“On what?  What photographs.  Oh.”  John has come round the table to look over Sherlock’s shoulder; he has a number of snapshots he’d got some weeks before from Linda Snow, depicting John’s and James Barrows’ regiment in Afghanistan.  John has pointedly avoided looking at them, not even knowing why, though his friend is mad to analyse every bit of them ( _Probably plenty of bits_ \-- Linda had mentioned 'showers', after all, much to his chagrin).

Sherlock clicks his tongue.  “So.  The late Sergeant James Kerwin Barrows and -- “

“Uhm.  Oh.  Erwin.  Kevin Erwin.  Yeah.  Hmm.  He’s up near Leeds, now.  Divorced, though.  Daughter two years older than Mike.  Yeah.”

“They had obviously emerged from a shared shower.  If you --“

John exhales impatiently.  “I took that one, I think.  Next?  Oh, God.  Hey, now.  Is that -- wh -- _Linda_ _gave you these?”_

“And I cannot thank her enough.”

“Listen, I’ve never seen _any_ older pictures of you, by the way,” John says, sniffing and crossing his arms.

“True.”

“Much less where you’re _starkers_.  Don’t suppose you’ve got any?” 

“Suggestive lighting on your backside, in this one...here.  Whose shadow was this?”

“Uhm.”

“Going by the angle and the way the water is draining downward -- see the shadow against the wall -- here?”

“Sherlock.”

“This, I presume, is Steven, visible in the previous photograph.”

“Listen, if you don’t know how to ‘thank’ Linda, I have a suggestion.  Mike has his first Christmas holiday without his dad, coming up in a few days.”  John shakes a finger loosely toward a photo of himself and Jim.  Sherlock opens his mouth and John talks over him.  “Boxing Day, lunch.  Okay?  I’ll do it.  Just be here."

"Mmm."

"Let’s warm up something to eat.  Starving.  It’s almost two.”  John is already wandering away.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and reluctantly closes his laptop.  “Why would you deliberately ruin a child’s holiday?” he asks.

John clears his throat (as if questioning the identity of said child) before remarking,  “Linda told me recently he can’t stop talking about you since we were in Egham.  Oh.  Might invite Greg.  Call him.”

“I already have.”

"Invite Alex.  He's alone, isn't he."

"And you might invite Alex's and your mutual acquaintance," Sherlock suggests.

"Wh - who?"

_It was worth a try._

***

Sherlock is reading and typing for much of the next several days; by Christmas Eve he is the least communicative he has been in many weeks.  Increasingly, John feels that his presence is all he can offer, so when he is home, he sits nearby and pecks at his own keyboard, reads quietly, or fusses around the flat cleaning and doing small repairs.  In the meantime he also frames the drawing of the phoenix he’d got from Sherlock and hangs it upstairs in his bedroom near the ink drawing of the officers with their bodies intertwined.   _Bloody hot present.  Better than ‘an erotic toy’_.  He starts sniggering to himself and folds up some shirts.  Truth be told, he’d be agreeable to recreating that scene.  However, John finds himself back in his armchair, all the more reflective; he watches small flames lick halfheartedly at the wood in the fireplace next to him and reviews the year in his head a bit. 

He glances over at Sherlock, who by now is pale, bent over his computer, submerged in his own exhausting thoughts enough that his brow is damp.  He would not go in for a chat now, so John keeps his feelings to himself.  _Don’t have to talk it over.  What for.  So, the end of another year, and Greg was just asking, ‘Still putting up with him?  There has got to be a medal for that from one of the ministries’._ He closes his eyes for a moment while resting his chin on his fist.  His idea for the following day is simple:  get his friend off the laptop, pass a few hours in the most pleasant imaginable way.  All phones will be switched off, the doorbell will be disconnected, and they will be in each other’s arms.   _And mouths, preferably.  Yeah.  With occasional snacks.  Honey would do._  

“Listen,” John says, standing and stretching to his best advantage, “Finish all that tonight, I've got plans for you tomorrow.”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah.  You, all day.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Going on my own, then.  Boring,” John says, approaching him for a kiss goodnight.  Sherlock looks up at him, brow creased, as if he’d just been accused of something far more heinous.  “All right, all right.  Work.”  John’s lips are wet and soft, and when he stands away from the chair it feels punishing to Sherlock to let him go.  “Night, then, love.”

Sherlock is annoyed at himself for being less than reactive.  John pets his hair for a moment longer and wanders off to undress for bed.  The dissonance between John’s warmth and Sherlock’s own thoughts makes his heart hurt even more.  He doesn’t want to think about that _Christmas_ , at _that_  estate, and _that_ decision.  And he doesn't want to talk.  Not when his homebound state, under the thumb of the British government, is _perfectly obvious_. 

Just as the darkest ideations of all begin to catch Sherlock at the edges and pull him toward a much-hated and destructive hollow in his brain, it flashes in his head how John had recently pushed a lock of his wild hair aside and put his lips to his ear, whispering, as if someone might overhear ( _And blast it, someone might_ ):   _You know how I need you._ When he’d asked, _So how do you need me?_  John, in a passion, had mumbled, _Ready and mine._  As semantically opaque as that had seemed at first, it had been very...erotic.  Sherlock rubs his face and pushes his hair off his forehead.  _A few minutes.  To clear the mind._

He stands up, finds every limb unresponsive, and suppresses a groan (his stomach hurts) as he walks toward the bedroom to kiss John back. 

Seeing his lover smile at him and pull him down for kisses like _that_ is like oxygen to a dizzy, ill and exhausted man, he thinks.  It confounds the warrior in him, who still cannot entirely believe his good fortune at having someone who wants him so viscerally.  It is suddenly easy to say, "I found it impossible to let you go."

***

By three in the morning, Sherlock has finished his document.  He types a few lines of rubbish, for himself.  To bore himself to sleep, he tells himself.  

_There is no such thing as non-communication:  one fails to communicate and communicates all the more.  Much in the way an obstacle re-exposes the significance of the path, perhaps?_

He will delete it in a moment, he thinks.  He pauses, the muscles in his astigmatic even if sharp eyes reminding him of the hour -- and his age.  He stares down at the quick winks of the cursor for a few seconds and lifts his fingers to continue typing. 

To his horror, he watches a word being typed _for_ him. 

_N-O_

And then it is gone _._

He slams the computer shut with a bark.   _"Nngh!"_  

He listens.  _Oh, hell._ John has sat up in bed; the sequence of springs suggests that he is standing up, not turning over.  His feet pad across the bedroom and he emerges in the hallway, hair tufted, eyes small and tired, muscles tensed; he is half-naked and half-asleep but all soldier and concern.   “What’s on?” he asks, his voice thick.

 _Either madness or impingement at its finest._ “Done now.” 

“Heard you shout.  You ‘kay?”

“Yes.”

“Nightmare?”

“Mmhmm.” 


	5. Spotting

The final consensus among John, Sherlock and their Boxing Day guests has been to give up on organising anything as early as a lunch and that they should meet informally for a bit in the afternoon, instead.  John and Sherlock had indeed spent nearly all of Christmas day in bed, in partial fulfillment of John’s hopes and fantasies, though Sherlock had insisted on typing on his laptop in said bed.  A turning point had come when John had mentioned that he looked tense (“Your apprehension of the _obvious_ , John, is truly -- mmm -- forgive me.”) and had broken a gloomy, silent spell with gentle, persistent kisses.  These had turned into one of their longest, most passionate frots; John's lower back and thighs ache this morning.  He can’t stop thinking about how vocal Sherlock had been by the end; after these months of "involvement" (as Sherlock usually refers to their sexual relationship), John seems to have earned himself a pet name in bed, if one does not count _soldier_ , which seems to have a significance of its own in Sherlock's mind.  This new endearment has come quite out of the blue and John isn’t even sure what it _means._   Despite that, he’s already managed to dream of Sherlock’s ramblings, wake up rock hard in the morning because of them and need a hand over it all. 

The morning has been a very good one, he decides, as Sherlock gives him a cup of tea with breakfast along with a flash of his pale inner thigh within his loose dressing gown. His insouciance as he moves about is so  _damned_  sexy that John nearly pulls him back by the arm and into his lap, table and knees be damned.  He would be heavy and unwieldy, however, so John calls him over and unwraps him a little to kiss whatever he can reach.

***

“Mr. Hollllllmes!” Mike runs and crashes all six and a half of his years into Sherlock's left hip as he hugs him in a wild greeting.  “Guess what?  I have an idea for a new gun.  It’s in Mummy’s handbag.  Mummy, where’s my gun plan?  And we have chocolate biscuits!”

“Good afternoon, Michael,” Sherlock says to him.  “I’ll have a look.  Linda,” he says to the little nurse, who has just come through the doorway.

“Hey,” she grins, digging through a shiny purple bag that matches her disturbingly tall and unstable shoes.  “Yeah, take this drawing before I accidentally mail it to the bank.  Is John here somewhere, too?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock looks her over.   _Has_ _lost 2 pounds, has freshly-dyed hair, her push-up brassiere is a size too big, and her feet are hurting her. She is still mourning Sergeant James Barrows and has had an unpleasant holiday thus far._

“There’s John.  See?”  Mike jumps across the room to the kitchen to hug him, as well.  “Jooohhnn!  Me and Mr. Holmes are gonna build a gun to take to Off-ganistan, if you want to.”

“Oh, right,” John says, hissing a bit and trying not to spill a pot of tea that he is carrying.  “Go to it, then.  Hey, Linda.” 

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.  Good to see you,” Linda says, waiting for him to free his hands before hugging him tightly.  Her eyes are already misting over when she stands back.  John clears his throat and rubs her arm as he turns away to get teacups.  At the same time, she sees Lestrade standing in the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.  “Hi Greg,” she says, as her cheeks flush, “Nice to see you, too, again.  Now who chose a perfect Christmas tree like that?” she asks, looking about for something to distract herself.  “Had to be Sherlock’s input, look at it.”

“Hi,” Lestrade answers with a slight delay, approaching Linda carefully with a nod.  He is watching the child.

“Mummy, you see, they still have presents left!”  Mike is bouncing up and down.  He has just noticed Lestrade. 

“Honey, this is our friend Greg,” Linda says.  “He’s a Detective Inspector for the police here in London.”

“How do you do,” Mike mumbles, and looks him over skeptically, perhaps because of the lack of uniform.

“Nice to meet you,” Lestrade says.  “I heard what you did for your friends at school.  The force in Egham was very proud of you.”

“Yessir,” Mike replies.  “I was just doing my job.”

Linda looks like she is about to cry again.  John sucks in a breath through his nose and sets his jaw.

“Michael, one of those presents is for you,” Sherlock tells the boy, who joins him near the little tree. “But you’ll have to determine which one by shaking them.  You’ll notice that none of them are tagged.”

Mike starts snatching up packages and shaking them one by one until he grins.  “Legos!  I hear them.  Mr. Holmes, _that’s Legos.”_

“Have you noticed how different sets sound when you shake them?” Sherlock asks, folding his hands behind his back.

“Yeah.  Big sets sound better.”

“Of course they would,” Linda remarks from the table, where she's settled down near the teapot; Lestrade is still standing in the middle of the room, trying to choose a perch for himself.  “Greg, how’re you?  Sorry, not trying to ignore you over here.”

The DI seems relieved to hear that and sits with her near Sherlock's music stand; John joins them and starts pouring tea.

“But whose is this one?” Mike asks Sherlock, holding up a gold box.

“For your Mum,” Sherlock tells him.

“Whose is that big one though?”

“It’s John’s,” Sherlock says. “Give your Mum and John their presents and ask for the penknife that’s in John’s pocket.”

Once the child has delivered the boxes and come back with the knife, he whispers, “You’ve forgot officer Greg.”

“No,” Sherlock says, “I haven’t forgotten.”  He gives Mike the open penknife to slice the tape on his present.  “Mind your thumb.  Now, if you cut carefully, you can remove the contents and re-wrap, or remove the most important parts so when there’s a nasty sibling he gets an incomplete toy.  In the heat of the moment, no one actually examines the tape for evidence of pilfering,” he explains offhandedly.  Mike nods.  Meanwhile, John has just removed a tissue-wrapped bundle from a white box; inside he finds an unlined, gray wool tweed jacket with pleated pockets and a faint blue weave running through it.  Basted together.   _With scarlet threads._ As John recalls, a certain German master tailor uses thread like _that_ when marking his work.  _Oh God, yes.  Going to Frederick’s to finish this off._  He catches Sherlock’s eye for several very hot seconds.  _Finish you off, too_.  The pink is spreading from his ears to his cheeks as he remarks, “Good wool.”

Lestrade notices John’s troubled expression (which has to do with the buttons on his jeans and his momentary inability to stand up and go help Mike with his Legos at the coffee table) and laughs, “So, I think _that’s_  one to report to a rip-off show.  Or maybe they didn’t have another one on the rack in the shop?”

“Sure you want to go into that, again?” John asks Lestrade, referring to what Sherlock considers Greg’s scandalous ignorance regarding tailored clothing.  

Lestrade makes a brief gesture of surrender.  He isn’t keen on another tirade from Sherlock about ‘draping’ the male genitalia in suiting and the side of one’s ‘dressing’.  _Not_ today, and not in front of Linda, for certain.  “Nah,” he grunts.  “Never mind.” 

Linda has received a pair of flat, soft house shoes with a type of memory foam inside, because, as Sherlock explains shortly, her efforts to look taller are futile as well as harmful to the Achilles tendon, a recipe for sciatica and osteoarthritis of the knee, and going by her ginger gait have already led to the beginnings of plantar fasciitis, which will affect her ability to work in her chosen profession.  She giggles in agreement and slips them on right away.  “They fit.  Wow.  So when have you got such a good look at me, Sherlock?”  Sherlock spares her his remarks on her ill-fitting lingerie but notes that Lestrade peeps down at her ankles with feigned concern for much longer than necessary; in fact, he only glances away when he receives a blue pen drive from the detective, which he pockets quickly with an absent nod. 

Sherlock has just received a present from John in hand and is opening it with a lump in his throat that he isn’t sure how to wish away.   It is a metal case of fine watercolour paints in little square pans (quite an indulgence); he hasn’t had anything like them since he was a teenager, when his old set had either got mislaid or thrown out after a row with Mycroft; he’d put his money on the latter.  John has the remarkable ability, he thinks, to fix things he had hardly realised were hurting, as if aiming for a precise point and quietly cauterising or clipping it short.  He squirms internally at his own poor choice of metaphor; perhaps it is merely that his gut hurts, again, and it is becoming distracting.

“Did you get paints?  Can we paint?” Mike asks, running round next to Sherlock to see the range of colours in the tin.  “Ooooh, you’ve got loads.  I have eight ones at school.  How many did you get?”

“Honey, I think those are a different kind,” Linda tells him.

Sherlock mentally rejoins them and turns jerkily.  “I’ve got twenty-four.  Finish your Lego police car with our visiting officer and I’ll ask our visiting artist to show them to you in a few minutes.  He should be here, soon.”

“Sherlock, a word?” John says, appearing at his side.  Sherlock glances over at him; his ears are still an agreeable pink as they remove to the bedroom.

Sherlock smiles as he pushes his door shut behind them; suddenly they aren’t so much kissing as sharing breath, their lips brushing and sliding against each other’s (smooth) cheeks and chins.  John had got the best shave in ages that morning after breakfast; Sherlock had pulled out a straight razor with a tortoiseshell handle and had run it quickly over all the crevices of his face, checking his work with his supple lips afterward.  Then he’d enjoyed several small tastes of a tiny nick on John’s chin before he’d even rinsed off all the lather.  ( _Stop it now, that tickles like hell -- hey, am I bleeding somewhere?_ )  Now, neither of them moves much.  John tangles his fingers in the hair at Sherlock’s neck and arousal begins to wind down his abdomen again.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asks him.

“Hmmm?”

“You said, a word,” Sherlock reminds him. 

“Yeah.”

“What was the word?”

“Amazing,” John murmurs.

A small smile hovers on Sherlock’s lips.

“What I’m going to do to you, before and after Frederick fits that,” John tells him.

"Mmm."

“Reminds me of a shooting jacket.  Never worn one in that style.”

“But you’ve admired the ones you’ve seen."

“I have, true.  Thank you for that.”

Sherlock looks down at him.  “I can send them away, now.”

“Yeah, I was just -- you always know what I’m thinking.”

“We are often of like mind in our designs on each other,” Sherlock replies and glances away with a huff.  “No great leap.”

“Hmmm, so how will you do it.  Send them away.”

“I will be myself.”

“Won’t help,” John says, taking Sherlock’s right hand and rubbing the ring on it with his thumb.

“That’s the point,” Sherlock elaborates, frowning a bit.

“No, I wanted to say that you’re wonderful.”

“Oh.”

John sees that his compliment has come unexpectedly.  He is unaware, however, just how directly he has contradicted Sherlock’s own thoughts; he can only see that his friend is preoccupied (Sherlock might say, embarrassingly so, in a moment when John looks about to reach for him and tease him even more). 

Sherlock stands back.  “Okay.  John.”

“Need to go back out.”

“Yes.” 

John licks his lips.  “A flash drive for Greg?”

“Just corrigenda.”

“Of what?”

“The activities of the Met according to the British press, inaccuracies regarding inaccuracies, a proverbial song against the wind.”

“Been collecting --”  _Oh, Jesus Christ.  All this time.  Of course you would, love._  John feels as though he’s tripped and caught his breath.  His face drops, though he has put his head up rigidly.

“Spotting,” Sherlock remarks and glances away.  _Still imagines this is somehow his fault._  “Why watercolours?” Sherlock asks him and moves toward the door. 

“Oh.  Well, you made botanical pictures with watercolour.  Alex advised me, said you’re ready for colourising.  Okay, let’s --”

Sherlock narrows his eyes.  “But you didn’t say why he gave you the tree.”

“What?”

“Alex gave you his Christmas tree.  Why?”

“Well, nothing you don’t already know.  He needs that bloody valve.  Had a bad day.”

“Mmm.”

“Paint me something.  Full colour.”

“The door, John.”

“Maybe something more interesting than the door,” John remarks.

“Alex.  At the door, downstairs.”

“Oh, right.”

John comes out into the kitchen ahead of Sherlock and jogs downstairs to the ground floor to let Alex in while Sherlock returns to the living room and remarks that the Lego car is missing four essential blocks on each side.

In a moment, Alex is at the top of the stairs, entering the room with a sigh.  He is already winded; Sherlock watches carefully while John introduces him to Linda and Greg.  Soon the pale artist turns to Sherlock and offers his chilly hand.  “ _Guten Morgen, keine Sorgen_ ,” he says, pointedly avoiding a holiday-specific greeting. “Or perhaps a few.”  He passes a book in colourful paper to Sherlock and smiles conspiratorially before approaching John with a bottle of well-aged Scotch whiskey.  “May your holidays always be, to thee, filled with mirth and jollity,” he says, his own unique yet bizarre formal manners in absolute harmony with his quiet, elegant clothes; John quickly closes his mouth, which seems at some point to have fallen open.  “Thank you, Alex,” he says. “Very much.  Uhm.” 

Sherlock chuckles down at the book he has just unwrapped, titled _The Accidents of Youth:  Consisting of short histories, calculated to improve the moral conduct of children and warn them of the many dangers to which they are exposed._ He notes immediately that it is just under two hundred years old.  “Instructive,” Sherlock quips, opening its creaky spine at several random points; his eyes dart over the dusty, spotty yellow pages and their bizarre engraved illustrations; suddenly he snorts and reads aloud:  “ _William went towards the hives, where he saw the bees quietly going in and out.”_ John bites his lip nearby, and smiles.  “ _This made him bold; and he formed the project of thrusting a stick in the hive, thinking he should get some honey; for, next to sugar, he loved honey dearly.  Hardly had he thrust in the stick, when a whole swarm of bees came out, and settled on his head.... The pain was so great that it was thought he would die.  He escaped, indeed, with life; but he had a terrible fever, and was ill a long time_.”  Sherlock closes the book.  “Brilliant.”   _Parting with a treasure.  Kind._  

“The burning hair, the swoons, the anguish,” Alex snickers.  “It’s hysterical.”

“No doubt.  There’s an aspiring watercolourist who would like nothing more than to paint with you,” Sherlock says in a low voice, giving Alex a moment of discomfort before indicating the child.  He hands over his new tin of paints.  John licks his lips and glances communicatively at Alex, who nods.

“So, I understand we have a young painter in the room?” Alex calls out.  Mike indicates himself by jumping up from where he is crouched by the coffee table.  “Sherlock, if you could, bring me about ten cotton swabs and several of your petri dishes, with water only?  No hydrochloric acid this time, please.  _Sennelier_ paint,” he remarks, turning to John.  “Well, I’d most likely have chosen _Talens_ , but naturally she’d gravitate toward _these_.  A lovely choice, though.  Lovely, indeed.” Alex smiles and pops open the tin with his thumbs.  “They have a high honey content, I’ve heard.” 

 _She’d_. _She’d gravitate._   Sherlock turns away to look for glass dishes in the kitchen cupboard.  “I’ll have a nib for you,” he says to Alex, referring to a technical rapidograph tip in a small, capped glass vial, which he has momentarily misplaced on the tabletop.  “A virgin, obviously.  I know you wouldn’t have it otherwise.”

John’s brows furrow and he wanders back into the living room to sit next to Linda.  Sherlock smiles to himself.

“So who _is_ that guy?” Lestrade asks John, when he is convinced Alex is out of earshot.

“Ah -- he’s a draftsman,” John answers, deciding that _we all met when Sherlock essentially propositioned him as part of a case involving mistaken identity over some obscene oil paintings of tattooed naked dead blokes -- oh, and later he took drawing lessons from him --_ would needlessly divert the flow of conversation.  “Yeah, and he chose that Christmas tree, Linda,” he volunteers, dumbly.

“Oh!” she says.  “That explains it, an artistic eye, then.  So.  How are you, anyway?”

John looks over at Sherlock, wishing he could explain -- _or hell, shout out loud._   “Good.  Yeah.  Good.  And.  You’re -- still looking for a place?  Any luck there?”

Sherlock has just scrubbed two petri dishes and filled them with water.  “Michael, where is your gun plan, now?” he asks the child, as he sets the dishes on the kitchen table.

“Oh, it’s here,” Alex tells him, waving it.  “We’re about to colour it in rainbows and bloodstains, I believe the plan is.  Joining us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book that Alex gave Sherlock exists and it is available to view here:  
> http://publicdomainreview.org/collections/the-accidents-of-youth-1819/  
> Sherlock is reading a fragment that begins on page 96.


	6. Not a small magnifier

This morning, John’s eyes drop first to Kadi’s graceful neck, around which she has looped a necklace made of glowing green stones (he guesses that it is jade) which have been knotted on red thread with tiny turquoise ribbon trim.  Her exotic eyes are painted in turquoise as well, and she has a red jacket that has been tailored to her tiny waist and tied round with what appears to be a woolen, embroidered South American belt.  John does not fancy himself a connoisseur of things sartorial but is able to say that hands down, she is the most put-together woman he has seen all day, and perhaps all week.  He would like to show her to Sherlock and see how he’d react to all that colour and texture.  “Raining like mad out there,” she says, responding to John’s sigh, which barely ends in a smile as he shucks off his wet coat and hangs it over a nearby chair.  She already looks infinitely calmer than he feels.

“Yeah.”  John runs a hand through his damp fringe and coughs. 

“Nice place, though.  I’d yet to try it.  So.”  Her eyes follow him down to his seat and he remembers himself when his spine bumps back against the non-ergonomic wooden chair back.

“Oh, right.  What would you like.  I’ll just go, and.” He moves to stand again.

“I ordered for you.  Pekoe and skim milk, I hope that’s all right?  I think that’s it, right -- here,” Kadi says, smiling up at the waitress who has set their steaming drinks on the table.  “Cheers.”

“Uhm.  Thank you, we’ll -- work that out?” he asks. 

Kadi has chosen a cappuccino with cinnamon, going by what is already wafting his direction and making him almost peckish.  “How about a warm up, John, you’d use it about now,” she says.  “I’ll just ask you some things to start.”

“You can try,” John smirks and shakes his head.    

“Just answer whatever you can.  _Ça va?_ ”

“All right.  _Ça va._ ”

_“Êtes vous prêt?”_

John stares.  “Uhm.”  _Shit.  “_ Oh, yeah.  _Je suis prêt.”_

_“Comment vous appelez-vous?”_

After several seconds of staring all too blankly, John nods and says, “John Watson.”

“ _Je me présente,”_ she says, pointing at herself and then extending her beautiful, thin hand over their cups in greeting. _“Je m'appelle_ Kadi Perkins.”

“ _Ça va._ No, wait.  _Enchanté._   Oh, Jesus.  Forgotten everything.”  _Including how to shake a hand._

 _“Relaxe, Jean._ Let’s try that again.  _Ça va?_   _Je me présente._ Kadi Perkins."

“Present.  Present myself.”

“Introduce, yeah.  _Je -- me -- présente._ ”

“ _Je me présente_.  _Je m'appelle_  John.” 

“ _Enchanteé_.  Try it again, faster.”

***

“Under the fingernails on the left hand.  Psoriasis, not a fungal infection?”  Sherlock is at Bart’s morgue for the first time in what would once have been describable by Molly as an age, though she is the one who has stopped texting and informing him of fresh subjects.  

“Nail dystrophy at its prime.”  John’s dermatologist friend, Marv, is Sherlock’s visiting expert today.  He is dressed in motorcycle gear and has dropped by on his way home; he is no taller than John, is a bit thick around the waist and has pattern baldness but is unassuming, manly, moderately sharp-witted and kind.  “Psoriasis,” he declares.

 _A long shot.  Reasonably well-read in popular subjects.  Would curb the model railroading were he sexually gratified --_ “Oh.  Molly Hooper, pathologist.  Marvin Caster, dermatologist,” Sherlock says quickly.

Sherlock steps back as the two take to their examinations; for a second they seem about to start circling each other.  _Like butterflies of similar species -- spying spots and stripes in flight_.

“Hi,” Molly says, holding her clipboard in front of herself like a shield over her heart-patterned cardigan and white coat -- needing that third layer of impermeability for the time being.

“Marv’s the name.”

“Molly.  Well, you just.  Okay.  So did I.  Well, I mean, a double introduction,” she stammers along as Sherlock grits his teeth in her direction nearby.

Marv grins.  “Not sure it’ll be enough.  Very-very nice to meet you.”

“Oh!  Well, thanks.”

“So.  Looks like I’ve finally figured out who gets all the cool patients,” the dermatologist remarks.

Molly sniggers and sucks in her breath suddenly enough that Sherlock looks over at her. 

“Hee -- yeah, and -- don’t say it!  At least I stay out of direct sunlight.  Hee hee!” she replies.

“Mmm, _please_ ,” Sherlock mutters, lifting a sheet and glancing at a pale, scratched forearm.  _Owned a parrot_.

“See?  And I was about to ask where Sherlock’s been hiding you.  Now how long have you worked here, anyway, Molly?” Marv asks.

“Seven years, but who’s counting.  Especially around here.”

“Could you use a break?”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t offer.  Coffee?  Maybe upstairs?”

“Sure.  Everyone here’s down for their naps, so.” Marv shrugs at the nearest subject.

“Hee hee hee!  Right.  As the dead in my head are red,” Molly says, under her breath, as she starts looking for her handbag.

“That’s from -- you mean, you know the _Mummy Revenge Oracle_ series, or?” 

“I’ve got most all of them, but not in hardback, unfortunately.  They’re hard to get.  Why, do you --?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and leaves them there, chatting and laughing in the middle of the morgue. 

“Let’s go upstairs, eh?  Hey, where’s Sherlock?”

***

“ _Si ce n'est pas indiscret --_ If it is not indiscreet.  Because I will ask a personal question.  _Si ce n'est pas indiscret._ ” Kadi pauses.

“Hmm.” John is scribbling notes for himself.

" _Si ce n'est pas indiscret, Jean.  Comment gagnez-vous votre vie?”_

“ _Vie_.  Life.  Again, please.”

“ _Repetez -- s'il vous plait_ ," Kadi states.

“Yeah.  _Repetez -- s'il vous plait_."

“ _Si ce n'est pas indiscret.”_ Kadi smiles. _“Où travaillez-vous?”_

“Oh.  Work?  _Je suis -- médecin.  Sans_ \-- uhm, okay.”

“ _Jean._  It is good manners to start some questions with a hedge, like _si ce n'est pas indiscret_....and then you ask someone’s profession or preference or something like that.  Okay _._ Try it.  _Si ce n'est pas indiscret..._ ”

“ _Si ce n'est pas indiscret,”_ John repeats.

_“Si ce n'est pas indiscret -- êtes-vous fou?”_

John finally smiles.  “Probably so.”

***

_If you’re in the centre, lunch?  SH_

_Available for lunch, John?  SH_

_Near Earl's Court presently.  Join me?  SH_

***

“Okay, _mon_ is ‘my’, right?” John asks Kadi, and picks up his pencil.

“Yeah.  In the masculine.  If the thing is _le_ , like _le frère_ , then it’ll be _mon frère_ \-- ‘my brother’.  Right?  Remember there are other words for ‘my’, like for the feminine, _la_ becomes -- know what?”

“ _Ma_.  _Ma_...like _ma amie_.”

“ _Mon amie_.  There’s a rule about the vowels, not _ma - a_ , just like you don’t say ‘a - apple’, right?  _Mon amie_.  I’ll bring you a text with some examples next time.  It’s easy, really.”

“Okay, what about a word, sounds like ‘loo’, but.”  John writes ‘loupe’.  “Magnifying glass?  Or _lieu,_ like place?”

“Where did you hear it?”

John clears his throat.  “In passing.”

Kadi glances at his paper.  “Well, _la loupe_ is magnifying glass, yeah.  It has the softest ‘ _p’_ so if it was shorter, ‘loo’, then --“

“So it would be _le_ ,” John says.  _A mon word, no vowel, so I guess le, not ''la loupe' --_ _I’m not a ‘small magnifier’.  That would be --_  

Kadi shakes her head and asks, “Maybe.  So what was the whole expression?”

“Uhm.  _Mon_ _petit_ _loup_.”

A smile reaches her eyes instantly.  “’My little wolf’!  That’s cute.  Wolfie.”

“Oh, right,” John says, and picks up his teacup, wishing irrationally for an _undo_ function -- to all things, all about him, his warm ears included _._

Kadi shrugs sweetly.  “You know, John, when it comes to French nicknames, you might just as easily end up a ‘little cabbage’ or a ‘little flea’,” she comments, folding her arms in front of her.  (John snorts.)  “Or a ‘little hen’.  They’re adorable.  Well.  Until you try and explain them in English.”  She writes _le [grand/petit/méchant] loup /[gris]._   “Does your girlfriend call you ‘wolfie’ then?”

“No, actually, I don’t have a girlfriend.”  John could kick himself for the way that had flowed off his tongue like honey.  _Maybe not honey, no_.  “My --“  _This is always fun.  Partner?  Lover?_  “Boyfriend.  Speaks really good French.”

“So you need to learn some things to say back,” Kadi replies, in a heartbeat.  “Or you can make a sort of a list of things you’d want to say and I’ll translate them for you.  And you can try them out and...see what happens.”

“Yeah, maybe sometime, why not.”   _Am I so damned transparent?  Who cares._

***

                _On my way home, my love._

When he is on the Tube, John realises as he flips through his near-illegible notes ( _should write more by hand_ ) that Kadi might be the first person he has mentioned his relationship status to, who had not known him before _.  Before now_.  _Like now, as in my life, with him, now_.  He thinks that through and after a minute or so he decides that it is more interesting that she hadn’t really reacted, at all.  _That works, why should she.  Did I actually want her to?  What for.  Well.  Yeah._   He has lost one patient (that he knows of), an older lady who’d seen a text about his “marriage” to Sherlock and had made a stink in the reception area at the surgery, telling him and whoever would listen that she doesn’t want a gay doctor; an occasional unpleasant experience, like the comments of a (former) colleague and occasional stares on the street (people still recognise him, though he rarely blogs, of late) don’t affect anything.  He feels like himself -- in other words, _damned well, thank you,_ in his own skin. 

At the moment, he thinks, that skin is wanting for a shower.  He’d been in a sweat for most of that first hour and half; he dislikes the sound of himself in French and when he listens, it reminds him of obnoxious-travel-show-host-French -- a few words barked to get a bit of food on a stick in an exotic place, devoid of any accent or charm. 

If nothing else, he’s confirmed that he really has forgotten almost everything he ever knew how to say in French, in the army.  He takes stock:  he can give several orders, knows descriptors of things like “small” or “enough”, knows plenty of obscenities and a few phrases to use with foreign personnel and the wounded, can hear a lot of cognates and guess, and read a few things like warning signs.  Not much to go on, when he thinks about moving to France, because he had impulsively but wholeheartedly agreed to (of course he would -- wherever).  And if Sherlock is _seriously_ thinking he’ll retire at some point and keep bees there ( _such a misuse of his talents, Jesus -- madness_ ), he has to survive without relying on his phoenix to translate everything.  _Ask for a bottle of milk.  Ask the way.  Ask if they have any other kind of -- whatever.  Ask if I’m not a glove-puppet, for fuck’s sake._ An added incentive to all of this learning-French business, he thinks, is that he _might_ manage to come out with a few words, at a strategic moment, one of these days.  _Worth a try, why not._

Sherlock’s little wolf finds his friend pacing rather wildly at the living room window with his telephone in the crook of his shoulder; one of his hands is wet and he looks to be waving the other in annoyance. 

“Obviously.  No.  At that altitude respiratory changes would take place more slowly, meaning there is slightly more acid and less alkaline than normal -- yes.  Yes!  Who overlooked that.  No, Tim.  Taste and smell are enhanced and less likely -- to be tempered by reason.  Just enough to matter, here.  Thus the -- yes.  Of course he would.  Mmm.  Of course.  Okay, yes.  Yes.”  He rings off rather suddenly and turns.  “John,” he says.

“Yeah?” John replies, realising a second too late that he’d missed a greeting. 

“Good afternoon.”

 _Bonjour, mon amour._ John smiles.  “Hey.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asks.

“Hmm?  Nah.  What’s on?” John approaches Sherlock for a kiss and puts a warm hand on the back of his neck.  _Not feverish._

“No.  Well.  I’d like you to read this, later.  Onion, John.  I can’t touch you now.” Sherlock waves toward his computer.

John turns and glances over at the laptop on Sherlock’s armchair.  “This one?   _A response to a case study of vitreous humour analysis -- in -- an embalmed_ \-- love, you know I --“

Sherlock’s eyes snap sharply to his, though they are watering.  It is disorienting.  “Yes?”

“Need a -- shower, actually.  Thought maybe you’d.  Uhm.”  _Get off with me and not stare like you want to tear my face off._

“I’d find something of more value to do.”

“Well, in a way,” John says, watching Sherlock’s eyes.  “My idea was to have a shower with you.”

“Now that you’re home.”

“Yeah.  Now that I’m home.  Right.”  John turns away and starts unbuttoning his shirt.   _What the hell was that all about._

He takes his shower alone and goes up to his room in his bathrobe.  After he’s picked up a book and read a few pages, he feels his friend standing in the doorway, looking in at him.  “Four,” Sherlock says, simply.

But it is not that simple.  He has been waiting for hours for a cue and does not wish to admit how much it is irritating him.  John puts out an arm and waits for Sherlock to come sit with him on the bed.  Before he can say anything, Sherlock says, moving closer, “You’ve scrubbed yourself thoroughly.  Celery cream soup on a chicken base.  Unrelated, but the soup was initially the point of coming upstairs.  You are distracting, John, I’m talking rubbish.”

John smiles.  “Know what?”

 _No._  “Mmm?”

“I don’t fancy letting go of you, or going anywhere.” 

 _My John._   “If you do, it might involve soup.  You’ve been suitably informed.” 

“And I have chocolates for you, you know which.”

“Brilliant.”  Sherlock tips his head and rubs his nose over John’s neck.

“Just four this time, but all rose.  Over there, the bag on my desk.  For later.”

“Thank you.  Soldier.”  _Remembered.  Always remembers._

“Feels good when you do that,” John says, letting his nose linger over Sherlock’s cheek, which he kisses as he puts a warm, soap-scented hand on his friend’s neck, running a thumb along his jawbone and leaning in for more.  “God, you’re --” he whispers, just before a long kiss that becomes far headier just before Sherlock says, “John?” 

“Hmmmm.”

“You’ve told me on four occasions that I am everything you have.”

John hums to himself as he reaches under Sherlock’s shirt and pops the two bottom-most buttons open to put in a hand.  “Yeah.”

“I feel the same.”

John closes his eyes and breathes for a moment, just to let that sink in, like a balm, nice and deep, into tired spaces in his heart.  “You really are,” he says quietly. 

 _Five._ Sherlock puts a long hand around John's head and pulls him close. 


	7. Blue man

John is staring intently over his French teacher’s shoulder at a case of truffles.  Today he and Kadi are in a Piccadilly cafe and chocolate shop with rather powerful Turkish coffee; he is beginning to feel the effects of the two he’s had while trying to master _c'est moi qui vous remercie_ and _je vous en prie_ in the correct context, responding to Kadi, who is making simple, clear statements of thanks; at this point, the roots of his teeth are nearly buzzing as he expresses 'you're welcome, you're very welcome' as reflexively as he can.  It is difficult, and irritating after a while, but many expressions are starting to stay in his mind. 

They are about to leave the place when John suggests, “Actually, I need to make an appointment, near here.  Would you -- like to meet a tailor?  Since you’re in textiles.”

“Sure, of course.  Where?”

“Jermyn Street, just that way,” John gestures.

“Oh.  Yeah.  And while we’re in the neighbourhood, John, there’s a place we might pop by and see.  You know Alex Nussbaum, right?  You do.”

“Yeah.”

“There's a perfumer in Jermyn Street who smells your skin and creates a custom scent, and actually, I found something about him online, on sort of a scientific blog.  He sniffed Alex’s _throat_.  Not the everyday consultation.”

“Could be interesting, why not,” John replies.

They have a short walk, and Kadi carries on in child-level French for John as he listens.  “How do you say ‘where is’?” he asks.  “ _Où -- est?”_

“ _Oui.  Où est...où est...la parfumerie?  C'est là!_   There it is.  _C'est là._...”

John follows Kadi into what he would describe as a mahogany-dominated and heavily-mirrored interior and instantly feels out of his element though it is his tired reflection looming on all sides from behind displays of colourful boxes and flacons.  Despite the kind attentions of a doorman (again, Kadi is the loveliest person in the place -- and its environs), John would most readily step outside again and run over to Frederick’s to make a jacket-fitting appointment.   _I was supposed to introduce them, though.  Right_.  He coughs.  It crosses his mind that Sherlock would enjoy sniffing his way through the shop; he tries to imagine what sort of person could ever survive working around so much scent,  _every day_.  He is quite close to the answer: a slim, sandy-haired man in a white shirt and black tie, with a rodent-like quickness in his eyes that suggests he is either ill from the scents or is as over-caffeinated as John feels. 

“Good afternoon, hello.  Do you make -- custom perfumes?” John asks -- Oleg, himself, who has just taken leave of an elderly client and turned their direction.

“Yes -- hello.  Oh.  Oh, woman.”  Oleg gazes at Kadi as though he’s fallen into a sudden stupor.  Before either of them can force out another word, the Russian has stepped forward and put his nose near Kadi’s ear.  “Burning _orange_ woman,” he whimpers to himself, as if it has physically hurt him. 

“Uh.  Yeah, just,” John interjects, his medical instincts throwing forward a red flag.  He moves to draw the man away.  “So, you -- work from -- hey -- give her space,” he hisses.  Another saleswoman glances over in alarm.  To John, Oleg looks close to putting out his tongue.   _Bloody hell_.  “Give her some _room to breathe,”_ he whispers and shakes his head firmly.  “Enough of that.”

Oleg ogles Kadi’s neck from a pace back and heaves a long, loud hum.  “I do not know name of this fruit.  It is -- melon.  Kydonion melon.  No, yellow fruit from some marmalade.”

“Quinces?  Lemon rind?” Kadi suggests. 

“Quince!  Yes.  Peony.  Temple spices.  I would give you rose and honey.  Come closer.  Yes.  Quince.  Cardamom.  Honey.  Rose.  What else you are?  What else you are.”

“Let her alone, now,” John tells him. _Jesus, a fucking maniac_. 

“It’s all right,” Kadi smiles.  “No harm done.  Quince is a favourite, in fact.  I was going to ask if I might book a consultation?”

“Harm is very done,” Oleg says to her, clasping his hands.  “I will never be myself if you do not give me chance to make your scent.”

“Sure, yeah,” John mutters and clears his throat impatiently.  _Says that to everyone._  

“And, sir.   _You_ ,” Oleg says, coming close to John.

“No,” John says, putting up a hand, but Oleg has already leaned down and sniffed him.  Kadi has inadvertently blocked his ability to step back.

“You are blue man!” Oleg says suddenly, waving at John.  “Yes.”

“Blue, eh?” John retorts and flashes a strained smile of _blue man is leaving this bullshit right about -- now_.

“Yes.  Sherlock’s blue man,” the Russian says decisively, and watches John’s entire face jump into shocked alertness. 

“What?”

“Your gloves, take off please.”

“My gloves.” John sets his jaw and pulls off one of the brown gloves he is wearing and stuffs it in his coat pocket.

“Yes, yes.  That is lapis ring.  You are Sherlock’s husband.”

“Uh.  Yeah.” _Why even explain._   “How did you -- ”  _The press._

“Ah, because I smelled your scarf,” Oleg declares. 

 _Oh, God.  You, too?_   As John ponders the properties of his nape, Kadi stands by with a bemused expression around her beautiful mouth.  Oleg turns to her again.  “Come see me.  Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday in morning only.  I must to think about you and I will no have choice.  Come see me and I will think of how to dress you.  You must to come see me.  No consultation.  No.”

Shortly afterward, they reach the door and Kadi receives a text and rushes off to go home, apologising that she will not have time to meet the tailor, after all.  John reserves an appointment time to fit his jacket with Frederick and the Brazilian smiles at him, catlike (though again, it might be the caffeine; John is feeling jumpy).  "Naturally, with Mr. Holmes?"

John's ears go pink; he nods.   _Very.  Naturally._

***

It is New Year's Eve and John and Sherlock are naked, in bed, a bit tipsy from white wine; it is less than ten minutes to twelve, and John has given Sherlock his mobile to compose New Year's greetings (from them both) to a half-dozen friends.  Sherlock opportunistically checks John's texting history and his eyes fall on something that makes him warm inside.   _Most photogenic in England.  SH_

“You kept it," he remarks, holding the screen up to John.  “Mmm.  Foolish of me, but I was ill."

"Oi," John grunts, and picks up his glass of wine from the bedside table next to him.

"Because I forgot to mention Afghanistan.” Sherlock snickers and texts.

“I’d swear you were flirting.”  John takes his phone back and glances over the message Sherlock has composed.

“Problem?” Sherlock asks, raising his wine glass and draining the last third of it at once.

"You shouldn't drink," John tells him.

"Nope." 

“Plan to follow through?  With this flirting?” John leans closer.

“As long as you’ll have it,” Sherlock answers.

John chuckles and hits  _send,_ letting his fingers stray over Sherlock’s cock as his phone drops to the floor by the bed.  “Very long, then.”

At first John hears a small sniff and notices a crinkle around the eyes, but soon Sherlock is covering his face and shaking with laughter.  John looks at him and his eyes narrow.  “Wh -- oh.  Oh, _hey,_ now, don’t flatter yourself.  Hah.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it."

Midnight arrives; the din outdoors is evidence enough.  Sherlock is kissing the inside of his soldier's naked thigh, lapping up a few lost drops of wine and John, listening to him sigh and hiss -- the only interesting sounds in England, as far as Sherlock is concerned.

And that it is the best New Year they have ever had in their lives...is self-evident and therefore left unsaid. 

***

“Oleg,” Sherlock says, as the Russian nose holds up a tiny glass dropper.  “A programmer.”

The perfumery, mercifully, is nearly empty; Sherlock has approached the synesthete in one of the side rooms which are used for individual consultations. 

“What it is.  You will guess,” Oleg answers, smudging the dropper on a blotter, which he puts up to Sherlock's nostrils.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  “Quince oil, rose, an exotic wood.  Peony.”

“Very good. What else?”

“A spice.  Cardamom.”

"Honey.  And what more should I put.  What more.”

“Pepper?” Sherlock asks facetiously.

“No,” Oleg says, gesturing with the dropper.  “Sherlock, you ask your husband please to bring this burning orange woman to me.”

“And would he know which is the burning orange one?” Sherlock asks with a smirk, folding his hands behind his back.

“Yes, he bring her to me for perfume.”

 _Brought, is bringing.  Will bring._ “Mmm.” 

“She is so _beautiful_.  I must see her again.  She is burning in my brain whole time and I cannot sleep.”

“Really. And why do you think you’ve met the ‘blue man’?”  _Unlikely._ Sherlock squeezes his teeth together.  _Brought._

“I smell,” the Russian gloats. 

Sherlock considers.   _To Frederick’s Tuesday.  Out for nearly five hours.  Likely.  John brought a woman to Oleg.  No -- does not know Oleg.  Conceivable.  To the perfumery, which is near Frederick’s.  Why a perfumery?  Mutual acquaintance.  Alex told her.  Why would John take her along to Frederick’s on Tuesday?  Meets her regularly.  What for?_

“He is surprise that I know he is your husband.  And then I ask him, take off glove.  And I saw ring with leaves and blue lapis stone.  Of course I saw it at the house of my cousin Anatol when he worked on it.  But I must -- I _must_ for that woman make rose, quince, peony, honey and cardamom.  Cedar, orange, I don’t yet know.  I cannot smell her two -- you know, second time.  Your husband not like when I smell.”  Oleg looks quite distraught by that fact.  “But you ask him kindly please, because I _must_ see that woman.  I make his scent, too.  Geranium with wood.  When he only brings her.” 

Sherlock’s throat has started to hurt.  “A programmer, Oleg," he repeats.  "The best you know.” 

Sherlock puts a phone number to memory, leaves Oleg and goes out into the rain; he lights a cigarette, smokes it far too quickly, and decides to visit Frederick for a moment; a question is irritating his entire nervous system like an abrasive, though he doesn't know what he hopes to hear in reply.  He feels a touch ill.  

When he enters Frederick’s atelier, the tailor has a gleaming row of straight pins tucked into his left cuff and is rolling up a cloth measuring tape, which he sets aside on his desk. He is waiting for someone. _“Guten Tag!  Was führt dich hierher, Herr Holmes?”_ * he asks.

 _“Nur eine Frage.  Das hat keine Eile,”_ Sherlock replies.

 _“Was ist los?”_ Frederick’s fingertips are dry from chalk and he rubs a bit of glycerin cream into them.

 _“Die Frau, mit der John war -- was für einen Eindruck machte sie?”_ Sherlock asks.

Frederick smiles broadly.  _“Er liebt dich wirklich.  So.  lch hab sie nicht gesehen.  Wie geht’s?”_

____________________

* German texts:

_\- Good day!  What brings you here, Mr. Holmes?_

_\- Only one question.  There's no rush._

_\- What’s on?_

_\- The woman with John -- what impression did she make?_

_\- He truly loves you.  Well.  I didn't see her.  How are things?_

***

                _Sherlock, if you are in the centre pls drop in.  Alex_

Sherlock had been close to Baker Street and had turned back; he finds his friend pale and quiet when he arrives.  Though it is mid-afternoon, they decide not to bother with tea, as Sherlock is too agitated to sit and chat and Alex is tired.  After this rather uncomfortable start to their conversation, Sherlock swallows and says, “What is it,” instead of the sharp-edged growl that seems lodged sideways in his throat (he has smoked far too much in the last two hours while talking to Oleg's recommended programmer). 

“I won’t keep you,” Alex answers.

“Okay.  But why did you ask me to come by, Alex.  What is the matter.” 

“Just to show you several things about the flat and its locks, should you need to use them,” Alex says, and proceeds to review each of them, as Sherlock stands in the living room and listens with his teeth clamped tightly.

“The point?” he prompts, after a minute. 

“Well.  The -- date has been moved so I am showing you today.”

 _You want to say goodbye. Of course.  You would never text that._ Sherlock blinks.  “Oh.” 

Alex frowns.  “Lucky me, yeah.  The surgeon, you see.  He has the flu, it's going around now, vicious flu this year, and they’re rescheduling whoever will agree and I agreed, Lord knows what for, I nearly called back and changed it, but.  Perhaps that is how things were meant to be.  We’ve really no control, in the end.”

“Especially since you decided not to call back,” Sherlock replies, before he can stop himself.

“There is that,” Alex agrees, looking at him carefully.

“Jens, I presume, has been informed.”

“No, he has not, I’m on leave, after all.  Happy New Year, Sherlock.  I managed to miss replying to the text that night.”

“Okay.”

“Well.  For what it’s worth, thank you for turning my colourless world quite on its ear, for being kind and remarkable in nearly every imaginable way.”

“Yes, that’s what I might have said,” Sherlock answers.

“Thank you very much, indeed,” Alex says, his intonation forced.

“Okay."

"Well."

"When you’re able to receive visitors, I’ll come see you.”

“Greet -- well.  John.”

“Say that again.”

“Greet John from me.  You were taking your leave, or?” Alex nods as if to affirm that fact.  “Yes.  Goodbye, Sherlock.  Do mind the roads, you’re distracted.”

"No. Are you --?"

"Fine.  No worries."

“Is John’s and your mutual acquaintance a woman, to whom you recommended Oleg, the Russian nose that sniffed you and said you were the colour of coal?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

Alex balks.  “He said I’m --”

“Yes.  Your heart medications interfered with his ability to identify your scent.  It’s not a fancy of his, it’s burdensome.  Did you recommend him to...” _A name, Alex._

“Yeah, I suppose I did mention him.  Yes.  When we were talking about pigments.  Why?  Has he sniffed her, too?”

 _John did not take her there on his own initiative._ “He wants my help in finding her,” Sherlock explains, with a quick move of his shoulders and a light eye roll for good measure.

Alex nods knowingly and smiles.  Sherlock straightens slightly.  “Not that I’m surprised,” the artist replies.  He pauses.  “So.  How do you know that this Russian met John’s and my mutual acquaintance, if _you_ don’t know her?  Did John tell you about their encounter?  No.”

 _Rather clever of you to check.  And yet you ask that with the marked inclusion of John.  Why._   “He didn’t have to tell me,” Sherlock says.  “Oleg recognised John by his scent.”

Alex hums.  “I daresay Oleg will give me nightmares, yet.  So, he claimed I look coal black to him?”

“Yes.” Sherlock looks at him piercingly.   _Not distracted.  Nnngh._

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”  The artist nods and puts a cold, white hand over his nose and rubs it sadly.  It is unpleasant to leave him in that state; Sherlock is startled how persistent his discomfort is as he walks out of the building; even when he is several blocks off and his friend has most certainly recovered his composure and gone to rest, it is disturbing. 

                 _Take care.  S.V.B.E.E.V.  SH_

_G. t. a._

Several minutes later, it will occur to Sherlock that _that_ loneliness, just degrees removed from despair, of an intelligent, feeling man clinging to the thought that at least one person on earth might (must) have a care, and that must (might) suffice in the face of risk -- is _damned_ familiar.  It hurts everywhere, the more he thinks of it.  He picks up his pace and hails a cab.

“John?” Sherlock calls out, as he enters the flat and looks about quickly.  For a moment it appears that John is out, but in a few seconds, there is shuffling above, in the upstairs bedroom, followed by stocking-footed steps on the stairwell. 

When Sherlock sees his dearest person in the world come in through the doorway of their living room, he can hardly contain himself.  So he doesn’t.  John is tired and easily surprised by the near-attack of arms and lips; he is about to tell Sherlock to take it easy but the remark dies out, crushed by wild, rain-soaked kisses.   _Smoking, love?_ The next thing he’d meant to say loses its place between them, too.  _Mycroft --_

Sherlock breaks away and stares down at him.  “As you are, just as you are.  Your bed.” Suddenly John feels himself being pulled by the hand and nearly pushed along, back upstairs.  A scene flashes in his mind’s eye; he’d been imagining it when Sherlock had called for him.  A story, for later, _which -- is now._   _Two people, held apart by force, are now allowed to touch each other for the first time.  Their shock at how good it feels.  Like this.  Exactly like this.  Running away to be alone and -- fuck._  He comes back to the moment as they push through his bedroom door, kissing more before edging toward the bed, which is strewn in stacks of paper.  They quickly remove all John’s things and laptop from the bed covers; John sees that Sherlock’s hand has closed over a notebook, flopped open to a page with a list of phrases he wants Kadi to translate for him.  Bed talk, mostly, though from the looks of things, he would not manage to use a single word of it, today.  Sherlock tosses it toward the desk chair with other papers; his hands are all over John’s chest and then he is loosening John’s shirt buttons and following his fingers with his lips, bending down to kiss John chaotically.  John unbuttons his own trousers and waits to be told something more.  “Missed you,” he says, gently, wondering if that’s what lies behind the sudden feverish touch of his friend once he’d got home.  From wherever he’d been.

“That’s you,” Sherlock says.  

John raises his eyebrows.  That is something he’s heard before; there is often a melancholy in it that he cannot entirely understand.

Once they have pulled off most of their clothes (Sherlock’s shirt and pants are still on and he has not moved to take off John’s pants) it is apparent that while John is already hard, waiting to be touched, Sherlock is absorbed in his thoughts and his body has not caught up; John tries to ignore it and pets his friend’s exposed chest over his heart, instead. 

“Always good to see you."

 _Who are you writing erotic texts for._ “Is it?”   _Me._

 _Pour toujours et à jamais.  Pour toujours et à jamais._  John presses kisses over Sherlock’s face and neck.  Their shirts are open and he leans over to push away a bit of shirttail and put a hand around his friend’s waist.  He is rubbing the front of his pants against his friend’s thigh as he cages him in with his arms and looks down at his neck.  “Wanted you all day."

“What have you wanted,” Sherlock asks, staring up dark-eyed at John as his mind drifts along the trail of dampness on his leg.  John’s desire.

John is forgetting the fraught sounds and clingy kisses he’d felt minutes before, thinking instead how dead sexy it is to be greeted with so much attention and love at the door.  And how promising Sherlock looks, his shirt dropping away, his long limbs bent gently, open.  John leans down and says, smiling, in Sherlock’s ear,  “You, just like this.”  John rubs his lips over Sherlock’s forehead and hair.  He reaches through his friend’s thighs and teases him through his pants, just behind his cock, which is finally betraying interest instead of betraying Sherlock himself.  Sherlock is about to take down the pants but instead watches how John moves down and explores him, moving the fabric aside, planning a path for kisses and admiring his skin; now, he is tracing his fingertips over the swelling ridge of cock -- that he had recently claimed _fucks him right over the bloody cliff of sanity_ (Sherlock thinks that John excels in the area of post-coital mixed metaphors and has missed a calling of some sort, but will not focus on this, right now).  John smiles and kisses it all through the pants as his hand slips through the leg, below; his fingers have started to linger far more promisingly.  They are intensely warm.  His hand closes and he squeezes Sherlock’s arse firmly, his thumb -- expertly avoiding a sciatic nerve.  He removes his hand, and runs his nose and lips back up Sherlock’s body ( _God, need it so bad_ ) and over his friend’s collarbones.  His tongue pokes at a vein in -- _that neck -- so fucking sexy -- slow down, slow down, slow -- it -- down --_ “Sherlock.”

“Y-es.”

“Help me a little and take these down.  Hmmm, look at you.  Shirt?  And.  I’m.” John puts a finger gently over one of Sherlock’s nipples and traces round it.  “Going to tell you something.”

“Mmm?”

John smiles down and licks his lips.  “I have a story for my phoenix.” 


	8. The strategist

Sherlock is under John’s weight with his soldier’s knees on either side of his left thigh; he would like to keep him that way much longer and forgo the next bit, but a glance downward ( _mmmm nngh_ ) is enough to bring him to his senses, and when John asks him to open the drawer, he obliges almost too quickly.

“I have a few stories.  Maybe I’ll need to start writing them down,” John says, with full awareness of his effect on his friend, who has been clutching a bit of John's blanket and worrying it in one hand.  

Sherlock seems to remember himself and stills his fingers.  “You might,” he answers, his eyes flicking over John again.   _Possible title:  Short histories calculated to deprave the conduct of men and delight them with the many dangers to which they are exposed -- by Captain John Hamish W --_

“One comes to mind when I’m up here.  Shouldn’t leave me with that drawing of yours,” John remarks, before palming himself rather provocatively.  Sherlock’s eyes widen as he briefly reverts to deducing when John might have -- well.  Been left to himself.  Without his knowledge.  “You knew what you were doing when you made that.  Clever creature.  Just trying to put a story to it, I want you every time.  Every damned time.  So this is one of them.  About the officers."

John smiles and puts his lips over his friend’s nipple and licks it gently as he pokes a wet fingertip inside of him and treats him to a sensual delight of very light, soft strokes.  Sherlock's mouth drops open slightly and he catches his breath in his throat.  John rests his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “They met when nobody anywhere around was hoping for anything more than mercy, or a merciful death.  Or maybe miracles.  It was already the end of the world.  The one that everyone knew.  Bombs were dropping from the sky, thrown down from zeppelins and planes.  Gas snuffed men out.  They were like insects on the ground.  Nobody who was fighting had any delusions about the honour of the enemy anymore.  In the middle of this tragic time in history a captain met a brilliant strategist."  John pauses and kisses Sherlock's chest again.  "As strong a mind as this strategist had, and as brave and stoical as he was, everyone could see he didn’t belong there.  He was amazing.  He could anticipate enemy movements just by studying patterns in their tactics, and could deduce the characters of the commanding officers by applying probabilities.  He was so accurate that some said he was a spy, himself.  They were just jealous of his talent.  In fact, he was so essential and special that the captain tried to keep him back, somewhere safer, without letting anyone see, especially the strategist, who he knew would take offense because he wouldn't want to be favoured or under anyone’s special protection --”

Sherlock interrupts John by grasping his face and kissing him rather violently; John’s finger has slipped deeper.  When Sherlock lets him go and he can speak again, John continues, “Even the captain underestimated the strategist, though, because he saw right away that the captain held him off and was sure that he was sparing him.  Worrying.  Caring.  The problem was, they were kept apart by that.”

"Y - e --" Sherlock groans and John smiles to himself.  

“One evening, the captain sent his strategist on an errand to a tent filled with supplies and coats. The clever bloke decided to test his theory that the captain cared for him and didn't come back on time.  Of course, the captain started to worry and came looking for him and they had a nasty row over it.  But what happened next changed everything.  The captain offered his hand to end the argument and the strategist accepted it.  But they could hardly stand to let go again.  They knew that they needed each other.  In every way.  And it was sealed right there.  The next night, the strategist had nightmares and visited the captain in bed and they slept in each other’s arms.  It was a huge risk, and for a while it smothered out all their other fears at once.  It was fantastic to wake up at dawn, warm, with someone there, and with the first feeling of falling in love, because they were.  Falling in love.  Madly.” 

John pushes his finger in entirely and listens to his friend mumble quietly (praise).  “All right, beautiful.  The strategist worked many nights through and in the meantime the captain made up his mind that he would confess his love at the risk of scandal.  But he didn’t know that his amazing, gorgeous strategist had plenty of plans for him, too.  In the night, to say goodnight, they kissed each other’s cheeks and hands, and held each other.  I didn’t mention that the strategist had unusually attractive lips.  To have one small kiss would be amazing, the captain thought, someday, maybe someday.  One last kiss goodnight, the captain decided, as he was about to fall asleep, and he leaned forward to put his lips on his friend’s cheek, but the clever strategist moved like he was surprised, and their lips touched for the first time.”

At that, Sherlock arches the small of his back slightly.  “But the real surprise now was how good it felt.  You feel fantastic, love.  Hmmm.  So.  The next real surprise was how hard it was to stop.  You know.  Both men were embarrassed by their need to stop, and then their need to start all over again.  They both wanted it, bad.  The captain tried to calm down and he realised that he wanted everything at once.  The strategist was lost, too, and tried to retreat to his logical categories to shut off the passion in his heart.  But.  Neither of them could deny what they wanted.  The strategist stole into the captain’s bed the next night again and without saying a word, he just kissed the captain’s neck.  How he knew that would set off so much remains to be explained, but the captain lost his head and put his hand in the strategist’s nightclothes.  The strategist offered his whole body to be touched, everywhere, and they spent most of the night exploring in the dark.  In the middle of the night, the strategist told the captain about something hot he’d seen in France, in better times, on a tour, as a young man.  The captain sucked him dry and then came crouched over his friend like a crazed animal.  The next night, the strategist wasted no time in returning the favour.  But it was more.  Everything.” John pauses to kiss and suck at Sherlock’s lips and work in another finger; Sherlock holds John down for a few longer kisses before he lets him break away and go on.  “Shells were exploding over them day and night and the two men struggled to keep their men alive.  The carnage was indescribable and senseless, deadening their hearts to life and they felt like casualties themselves.  But they knew it was vain to think so.  It was.  You -- feel so good.  Want you so much.  Tell me when,” John says, humming as he dips his tongue between Sherlock’s lips again.  “And.  Uhm.  Any minute they could be finished off for real, too.  Again, the captain began sending the strategist to safer ground in the back lines on errands.” 

John slows his pace only to hear a sound of protest.  “The only truly safe place left though was whatever tiny bit of space they could carve away in their heads.  That safe, sweet spot in the captain’s head was taken by kisses that felt like explosions, that voice deep and dark like the night, the feeling of exploding in his friend’s gorgeous hot mouth, the closest to heaven and hell he might ever get before he got shot through and when he -- came to see the strategist in the supply tent, one night, it felt -- uhm.  Like a farewell.  But this time, they suddenly wanted -- exactly -- the same thing.  To be as close as they could get.  To each other.  And to feel alive, even if it had to hurt.  Because the captain loved that man so much, more than life.  What was a bit of pain to him?  And he said, come you gorgeous, amazing creature and tell me:  what else did you see when you were young and mad in France?”

If the captain’s flushed strategist had been able to speak coherently, he might have provided the final line of the story himself.  But he pulls John to his lips and kisses him, asking for him without words.  In a moment he finds himself stunned by a jolt to the nerves as he takes in John -- who has just seen that spike of pleasure in his eyes and is determined to make it happen again.  And again.  He grasps Sherlock by the hip and grinds forward, pulling his friend’s long leg closer and leaning over to kiss and suck at Sherlock's tongue at which his eyes fall shut.  John runs his palm down Sherlock’s thigh and looks at him carefully as he starts moving into him faster.  He doesn’t hear a sound until he leans down and kisses Sherlock’s neck, his breath spreading over the skin exposed near Sherlock’s ear.  “You feel,” John growls, “unbelievable there.  Can’t.  Je-sus.  Oh, yeah, move, like that, yeah.  Oh, God.  Oh -- oh, Sher -- oh -- hmmmm, love.  Hold me -- like that, yeah -- _yeah_ \-- ah, yeah.  _So warm -- oh -- hnnnnn -- perfect -- gorgeous --_ ”  

For now, John gets one word to go on, in response:   _“More.”_

For all the not-that-terribly-many times John has had his phoenix he has never had him so thoroughly, and by the end he is so wound up with adrenaline and endorphins that he is a giggling, affectionate mess; Sherlock is not much better off; he feels half drunk.  In his mind, John is an inordinately erotic genius who should be carried through life and kissed continuously.  In the haze of it all Sherlock rubs at the smarting muscles in his stomach and resolves in his head to return to yoga, which he suddenly laughs about aloud, startling John, who is drifting toward more rational thoughts and has started worrying that he might have been too rough, and is opening his mouth to apologise.  He smiles instead.  “We all good?” he asks.

“Are you mad?” Sherlock retorts and laughs into his hands.  “John, I _adore_ you.”

John blinks.  “Yeah?  Wow,” he murmurs, quite touched.  “Come, beautiful phoenix.  Come.  I love you, too.”

“I liked your story,” Sherlock says, his voice muffled against John’s chest.  “Although I had a different version in mind when I drew that picture.”

“Tell me?”

“Another time.  Dinner?”

“Starving,” John answers, quite reflexively.

“Ah, did you make dinner?” Sherlock asks, eyebrow cocked.  “While I was out?”

John sucks in a breath.  “Nnnnope.  But."  He bites a lip contritely.  "I can -- I don’t know, improvise.  Bring it to you in bed in a while?”

“Okay.  Let me go?”

“Distracted.  Thinking about you.  Like now.”  John's hand closes over Sherlock's hip.

“Mmmm, John.  You’re --”

“-- Wolfish, maybe?”

Sherlock smiles blankly down at his hands.  Finally he nods.

***

“So, Marv told Will you introduced him to this amazing girl?  Gone barmy over her and wants me to meet her, I guess.”  John yawns and rubs his chin; he stares out the window of the morning cab he is sharing with Sherlock; it appears they have hit a patch of gridlocked traffic. 

“Pointless,” Sherlock sighs and starts texting.

John does a quick calculation and decides he most likely won't be more than ten minutes late for work.

“So when will it be over, you reckon?” John asks.

“Piss _off_ ,” Sherlock growls down at the screen and pounds his thumbs into it.

“Excuse me?”

“Not you.  It’s Molly.” Sherlock sends a text.

John exhales in irritation.  “Sherlock.”

“Molly, the amazing girl, John.  No need for introduction,” Sherlock explains. 

John's lips make a delightful, small 'o' and he huffs.  “Molly -- _Hooper --_ is Marv’s new girlfriend.  Hah.  How?” 

“Easy enough to introduce them on a pretext.  By all means, go to the pub tonight with them and Will.”

“How did you know I -- okay, never mind.  So you’ve also surmised _correctly_ that I want you --”

“Mmm.  Go without me.”

“What -- awkward, or?”

“Why awkward?”

“You...like her.”

“Your point?”

“Could be awkward.”

“Could it?” Sherlock counters.

John blows a puff of breath against the chilly window of the cab.   _You tell me._

Sherlock opens his mouth.  “The exhibit of the manuscripts.  By the chap who slept in a gondola.  Well-publicised.”

“Lord George Byron, Sherlock.  Writings and personal effects.  Of Lord George Byron.  Romantic poet, essayist and adventurer.”

“Tomorrow morning, with you.”

 _Kadi at eleven.  Nope._ “Can’t.  After one, though, we could meet and go.”

“So I’ll go with someone else,” Sherlock replies.

“Who, then?” John asks.

“Jens Lindberg.  Recently left his partner of eight years.  The man he cares for is having a valve replaced tomorrow morning and he is none the wiser.”

"Wh - at?"  John stares.  “Oh, God.  Alex is having it -- _tomorrow?_   You didn’t _mention_ that!”

“Mmm.  Nine in the morning.  Tomorrow.  Change of surgeon and date.”

"Oh, God.  We'll go see him, then."

"Yes."

“Uhm.  Around one or one thirty, in front of the museum?” A furrow deepens between John’s brows.

“Noooo.  Crowded.  I want to have a look early in the day. _Put a muzzle on it!"_ Sherlock bares his teeth at a text and starts poking a reply with a thumb while pulling his coat closer around himself.

“Have a look around and I'll join you after one.  See you, six-ish, at home?”

“No.”

“Oh.  Going out, later?”

"Yes.  To the Yard."

John's mouth has fallen open, again.   _The pen drive he gave Lestrade.  Re-opening something, maybe.  Oh, God.  Good.  Good!_

"Your stop," Sherlock mumbles.

John nearly knocks the mobile out of Sherlock's hand as he reaches for his coat collar and pulls him into a hot, reckless kiss, all tongue.  "See you," he says, his eyes shining as he backs out of the cab and rushes away down the sidewalk to the surgery.  


	9. A minor intervention

John drops by Baker Street after work to clean up and get ready for an evening out with Will, Marv and Molly and finds the place silent and dark.  He'd half expected Sherlock to come along but shakes off his disappointment quickly, reasoning that if he is with Lestrade, working -- that's bloody fantastic.

                _Not coming to the pub, my love?_

_No.  New arrest in reopened fatal beating of toddler.  SH_

John's face breaks into a smile.  "Good.  Brilliant thing."

_Well done.  Love you._

_Potted spruce tree for Will.  Remind him.  SH_

They will not exchange many more words today; John will return after twelve having short-sightedly mixed a double rum cocktail and beer; he will slur declarations of love and Sherlock will block his way upstairs, lest he decide to crash back down, and will steer him through the living room and kitchen.

“You’re the most wonderful bright fucking sexy -- anyone I’ve ever -- you -- really.  You.  I don’t even know, why you even love me,” John mumbles, shaking his head and bumping his shoulder into the wall as he walks through the kitchen next to Sherlock with the general intention of lying down somewhere.  “No.  Doesn’t matter, you’re.  You’re a man, you’re just -- the most.  Just wish they could -- see.”

“Okay, John.”

“Just.  Wish they’d fuck off and -- stop.  ‘You still together?  Still?‘  Hmmm.  Sod off -- asking -- damn it.”

“Calmly, soldier.  Bed.”

“They.  Sher -- not uhm.  Bollocks.  Hmmm.”  John pulls away from Sherlock, sways into the bathroom, slams the door behind himself and gets appallingly sick over the toilet; Sherlock ultimately perches himself in his armchair in the living room with a cup of tea and honey and winces as his bare toes curl into the leather of his seat. 

Later, Sherlock is wholly unable to sleep and sits in front of his laptop reading online and clicking about aimlessly -- by all appearances, which is entirely the point.  He reads about the first subjects that come to mind, mentally undressing John after having literally and more straightforwardly stripped him of his laundry-bound clothing for bed.  (He’d fought it until Sherlock had ordered him with a drillmaster's sharpness to comply, citing random hygiene regulations as arguments.)  Therefore, he reads about the traditional weaves in Shetland woolens, the history of v-neck t-shirts in Hollywood film-making, peruses a popular survey about whether or not Y-fronts are indeed hotter than boxers, opens a speculative forum discussion about common personality traits among partners who wear striped socks and reads up on ways to refresh leather on scraped and worn brogues; he is as dull as he knows how to be, _at least outside the walls of the Diogenes Club,_ he muses with a yawn.  At nearly three in the morning, he begins typing experimental tripe: 

_Exclusivity is closely tied to perceptions of one’s success, namely when something is recognised as exclusive, desirable or rare.  It incites envy.  And being envied is easily taken as a sign of one’s success.  It is absurdly seductive.   It reminds one of the compulsion to get dirty in order to wash one’s self._

He pauses and watches his cursor.  And then it comes.

_. . . HA_

Only to be deleted again.

***

John is grEy-green and silent in the morning but gets up at a decent hour to shower and steady himself.   _To meet the burning orange woman of Tuesday mornings.  Mmm._   It is close to nine and Sherlock has distractedly reached for his violin to scratch out a few quick scales, though a glance at the anticipatory grimace on John’s face is enough to derail the idea.  Besides, he has an exhibit to see at the V&A at ten:  Jens plans to cycle there from his Knightsbridge office, despite the rain ( _some bring good habits to London from Stockholm_ ); Sherlock looks at his phone and elects to leave the flat in ten minutes.  John doesn’t feel good enough to kiss him long, but enjoys having his fuzzy, pulsing temples petted a bit.   

Indeed, Sherlock finds Jens, damp-haired and über-punctual, waiting in the foyer of the V&A with member’s tickets in his hand.  He is more than pleased to pop out to chat and have a look at the exhibit about “the gondola fellow” (Lord George Byron, to all but Sherlock Holmes this morning).  The Swede is interested in seeing the condition of the manuscripts and would like to have a look at the quality of their inks.  Sherlock, who cannot scrape at them, photo-age them or examine them under his own microscope in his house clothes (with John reading nearby in his armchair) acts as though he were less keen, though he is not there accidentally, by any means. 

 _“Hur mår du, Sherlock?  Är du lycklig?”_ *

“I am.  English, today.” Sherlock checks that his phone is turned on for the fourth time since leaving the flat and reminds himself to knock it off.

“Note that manuscripts are of the minority.  We will see personal effects, among them manuscripts,” Jens says.

“Mmhmm.”

Jens rubs his hands together.  “Now.  Have you read the response to the results of our dye provenance researches?  From last week, in fact, by a conservator at the Art Institute in Chicago?”

“I have not.”

“He appears interested in replicating the testing schema of your design, on papers.  My congratulations.”

A text buzzes in Sherlock’s pocket. 

_He’s under.  Nurse sd everything is normal so far :)  Susi_

“Unimpressed, Sherlock?” Jens asks.

 _Tell him?_   “Impressed.”

The two men wander among cases and plexi installations.  Jens tells a long and subjectively amusing story about a mistaken shipment of lithographs to a friend in New York that had ended in two divorces and Sherlock mentally drifts through a nexus of disturbing and uncountable variables; he clasps his hands tightly behind his back, as if to push himself forward.

“Do you see it?” Sherlock finally squints and bends over an exhibit case; he glances at the number of the exhibit and taps at the glass with his long middle finger.  “Jens, the paper.”

“Och,” the Swede harrumphs to himself, quietly.  _“Påtaglig.”_

“This tidbit came my way recently,” Sherlock says in a low voice.  “A worker in the conservation wing, having second thoughts.  Claims to have created this for the purposes of the exhibit using a facsimile because the original was unavailable.  ‘Why would that be, Mr. Holmes, why?’”

Jens sniffs.  “Unavailable?  One euphemism for mislaid -- or -- ”

“Stolen, ransomed?  Or...”

“Ruined.”

“Yes.  The writing is well-done, in form.  But the ink distribution -- see it?  The pen pressure is consistent with _drawing_ letters and not the gondola man’s natural handwriting.  We’ve got plenty of samples to compare it to.  Moreover, note the flow.”  Sherlock grins.  “Contemporary pen?” 

“Exactly.  Not by the use of the dip pen!” Jens says, betraying more than a trace of excitement in the widening of his clear, blue eyes.

Sherlock straightens and looks about the room airily.  “Dr. Jens Lindberg formerly of Stockholm’s _Nationalmuseum,”_ he drones like a radio announcer, “Wishes to discuss the provenance of ink and paper in exhibit A129 with curator dr. Anita Natterby-Milner, in preparation for an international graphology conference.”

“Wishes, indeed.” Jens snorts.  “Lead the way, my friend.”

____________________

* _Swedish texts:_

_\- How are things, Sherlock?  Are you happy?_

_\- Och.  Obvious._

***

Within an hour, Jens and Sherlock have jokily decided to cooperate on the development of unique forms of “coercion” in the art-world and possibly write a manual; neither of them are particularly interested in seeing the rest of Lord Byron’s effects and Jens decides to peruse the attractive museum shop there for a few minutes instead, to choose something for his _stjärna_ , Alex.  _Who has received a ten-inch incision and whose sternum,_ Sherlock thinks, _has been sawed through and his ribcage pried apart -- his circulatory system is in the power of a bypass machine -- Susi the receptionist should snack less and write more, for God’s sake --_  

“I’ve seen far too little of him,” Jens remarks with a wistful smile, a declaration which nauseates his companion (for not-the-usual reasons); he soon chooses a bold silver stick pin for a tie or lapel, with an attractive, stylised horse head. 

Sherlock sniffs a series of silk scarves in a corner display, gives some consideration to finding Oleg’s _burning orange woman_ without involving John and tries to calm his racing brain.  “Brunch,” he barks, brightly, once he notes that Jens is standing in front of him with a small carry bag in his fingers, waiting good-naturedly for him to lower the scarf from his nose. 

“Sure,” Jens agrees.  “We’ll take some foods to my office and I will show you new projects.  You’ll walk?  It rains.”

“Of course.”

“Then I will go for my bicycle.  Shall we?”

***

                _One surgeon just left supposedly.  Susi_

_OK the surgeon is back now.  Susi_

***

John still has a throbbing headache and his stomach feels all too much like a clothes washer filled with sports shoes but a cup of strong coffee seems to be working wonders; he nurses it and admires Kadi a bit, who is glowing in a violet-blue wool suit; most of her hair has been released from braids and has been brushed straight and glossy down her back.  Today she is wearing a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses, behind which her almond eyes are painted sapphire blue.  Her earrings are long, made of tiny woven beads, in a similar blue colour.  In his groggy state, colours seem far more intense than usual, he notes.

“To say thank you for your help.  _Merci bien de votre assistance_.  Try it, John, responding each time as well as you can.  _Bon voyage de retour!”_

 _"Merci bien de -- votre assistance,”_ John replies, and sets down his cup.

_"Ça va, monsieur Jean?”_

_“Oui, tres bien, mademoiselle Kadi.  Merci bien de votre assistance._ Uhm.  _Mon téléphone.  Pardon._   Sorry, can I just check that?” John asks, as he feels a text buzz in his pocket for the second time.  Kadi nods.

                _I love you with all my heart.  SH_

_I’m thinking of you.  SH_

“Uhm -- how do you write ‘I can’t wait to see you again’?” John asks Kadi, who winks and writes it into John’s notebook among other phrases.  "Thanks."

                _J'ai hate de te revoir beautiful phoenix._

_Je t'aime, mon petit loup.  SH_

John grins.  He is quite chuffed.  “Amazingly enough I actually understood his answer this time,” he says to Kadi, and puts his phone back into his pocket. _Never deleting that one, either._

***

“Sherlock.  The unpleasantness with Peter has not repeated itself,” Jens says, crossing his office and retrieving an extra chair, which he sets by his desk.  “He no longer calls.  Thank you for your part.”

“A minor intervention.  Nothing at all.” Sherlock sits down and sighs, sparing the calm-natured Swede the details of a favour he’d called in from a 6’6” Algerian kick boxer and club bouncer.   _Everyone has their pressure point._

“But as for our friend, he refused a contract from me.  I admit I do not understand why he resists us here at the firm, when his contributions in Linz were very satisfactory and I would be willing --”

“Excuse me.” Sherlock yanks his buzzing phone from his pocket.

_OMG they had probs restarting his <3\.  Susi_

_Specifics.  SH_

“As I was saying, he resists and I cannot understand it.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Your ring is a good design.  I always notice it.  Can I look at it?” Jens asks.  Sherlock extends his right hand on the desk closer to Jens.

_Multiple shocks needed.  Stable now.  Still under.  Susi_

“When will you marry?” Jens asks.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock responds, and suddenly bites his tongue.   _Stupid.  Think._

Jens has already moved on.  He furrows his brow.  “My friend, you should eat something from what we bought, perhaps.  Your fingers are dancing.”

“Perhaps.”  Sherlock frowns.  “Alex refused because he is ill.”

“Yes, I know he is ill.”

 _Not a post-mortem acclamation, after all, he'll take it._ “And his open heart surgery this morning appears to have been successful.” Sherlock sets his phone on the desk in front of Jens, who reads and scrolls through the texts from an unknown ‘Susi’ about his bright star, Alex, in complete shock.  He betrays no reaction aside from the twitch in his jaw as his teeth lock.  His pleasant face has frosted over. 

After a very tense minute, Jens nods.  “To know earlier would not have affected change to the outcome we have now,” he states quietly.  “Thank you.  I understand.”

“He wanted to protect you.  He’s an idiot,” Sherlock mumbles.

“So are you,” Jens replies.  “Eat the brunch, or lunch, shall we?”

***

_Hi, Nurse says he’ll be kept under until evening, so you shouldn’t come.  Susi_

_BTW tomorrow morning ok to visit.  Susi_

_Hi, Going off shift.  He’s in CICU confused but nurse says ok.  :) Susi_

_Thank you.  SH_

***

Sherlock is at the window restlessly playing a poorly-disguised refrain from Gilbert and Sullivan's _The Gondoliers_ on his violin when John returns in the early afternoon with a long, paper-wrapped and rain-spotted packet in his hand and a subtle gleam in his eye.  He sets what is undeniably a rose on the living room table and approaches Sherlock from behind, slipping a hand over his back affectionately. “Good news, that he’s all right,” he says, kissing the pronounced vein on the side of Sherlock's neck. “By the way, I know Susi, too.”

Sherlock smiles and glances over at the table curiously.  "What is that?"

“Deduce the colour,” John says.  "If you can."

“Mmm.  Not red, you wouldn't ask me to deduce a stereotype.  Not white, no clear context.  Violet, you’d now avoid.  Burning orange?  No.”  Sherlock watches John, who has blinked slightly at that.  “It’s yellow.  Today was unpleasant for obvious reasons, I spent the morning with someone else, like you, and perhaps you thought of the yellow roses we once had in our hotel room, far away from here?”

John seems to consider that for a moment.  “Okay, okay.  Go on, then,” he says, crossing his arms.  His eyes shine dangerously.

Sherlock huffs as he gently unwraps a large, tight, dusky, dark pink bud.  “Pink.  Why.  That doesn't,” Sherlock protests to himself.

“Free association,” John replies, licking his lips as he waits for his friend to catch up. 

“I don’t understand.”

“My memory for colours isn’t that good, but.  We can...check it.”

“Oh.”

"Move your violin."


	10. Sherlock's birthday

By breakfast-time the following morning (Sherlock pours omelets, mixed the night before, with cheddar, bell peppers, chervil and a jar of sliced mushrooms), John’s present to Sherlock has begun to unfurl attractively in the warmth of the kitchen.  

 _Mmmmm, John._ _John’s knuckles, three in a row, and then kisses -- want to make you feel good, love, he says.  Hair now longish around the tips of his warm ears.  Soft.  Excited to be home with me.  You already have, John, your message was a high point, until just now, when you actually arrived -- nnngh -- an inane thing to say, soldier, but it was the truth.  Hmmm, that’s so nice, my love, so kiss me back, unless you’re afraid I'm going to bite, when -- John, I’m counting on it -- and your memory for colour, as it happens, is superb --_ Sherlock raises a eyebrow at the bud again before he sets John’s plate in front of him, accepts a gratifying, damp kiss to his cheekbone and sits down close by with a mug of coffee; he starts scrolling around on the screen of his phone.  

“So.  Your birthday,” John ventures, washing down a bite with tea, “which you’d deny ever took place.”

“Mmm?”  Sherlock nibbles at his lower lip idly.

“Tomorrow, and I’d like to take --“

“Nnno.”

“Oi.”

Sherlock raises his eyes.

 _Hmmm, gorgeous._   “I was about to say, I’d like to take you,” John says, his entire face now far more animated, “to Frederick’s with me, fit my jacket, and order you a shirt.”  John cuts a large bit of egg and mushroom and stuffs it in his mouth, chewing with a sigh.  “This is great.  The peppers aren’t overcooked.  Why aren’t you eating this?  So.  He had material by his desk when I was there, not for lining, but a kind of matte silk with a herringbone weave.  Nice stuff, never seen anything like it.  Sort of night sky colour, blue, almost black.  Really soft, so you’d wear it a lot.  I’ve _got_ plans, see.” John stabs a bright red chunk of bell pepper and pokes it in Sherlock’s direction.

“Yes, you have,” Sherlock concurs.

“Mentioned it to him.  He was expecting you to come along, so you’ll look at it and decide if you like it at all.” 

“Okay.”

“He has all your measurements, right?”

“He does.”

“You could strip off a bit for me, though.”

“Mmm.”

When John leaves for work shortly afterward, Sherlock rubs his hands together and leaps up to shower and dress.  After outlining a new article, he is going to visit Alex.  But the mindless smile on his lips is over _birthday sex_.  _Now, finally, a viable option, with a virile army officer, at the tailor’s, or -- wherever --_   

***

“I’m sorry, sir.  Close relations only, and very briefly.”

“Sherlock Holmes, brother, next of kin.  It’s on the chart.  Literacy,” Sherlock says, showing too many teeth and drumming his fingers on the reception desk.  “Has the physiotherapist been by?”

“No, not yet.  He’s disoriented.”

“Might find someone better-qualified.” He narrows his eyes at the ward matron. _Still living at home at your age?_    “What time was he removed from the ventilator?  Who has the surgical report?  The name of the anesthesiologist.” 

***

Sherlock finds Alex wide-eyed and covered with pipes, drains, gauze and tape.  He is paler than he ever looked on his worse days, and his eyes are round with anxiety, red and swollen.  When he first sees Sherlock in his dark coat, he looks startled and tense until he seems to recognise him, at least as non-staff.  “Good -- “ he starts to say quietly, though his teeth are chattering.

“Alex, calmly,” Sherlock tells him.  “How do you feel?”

“They --“

“Yes?”

“They won’t listen to me, darling!” Alex wails.

Sherlock holds his breath for a moment.  “Okay.  Alex.”

“None of them!”

“And.  What should I tell them?”

“It’s taking -- too long by now.”

 _Disoriented --_ Sherlock swallows.  His mouth has gone dry.  “But it’s over.  You’re all right.”

“Over?  Gracious Mother!”

“Alex.”

“Hold them off, for the love of God!” Alex whimpers, just above a whisper.

“You had an operation.  You’re all right.”  _In a manner of speaking.  Nnngh._

“You need to tell them.  It’s far too long.”

 _“Herr Magister, pas auf.  Alles im grünen Bereich, in Ordnung.”_ *

Contrary to Sherlock’s expectations, Alex is just as lost in German; he speaks to the same ghosts.  _“Nein, ich will nichts damit -- zu tun haben.  Bitte!”_

 _“Benimm dich._ ”

“Darling, you do know, don’t you?  How to make them stop?”

“Okay.  Alex.  Rest.”

_A. disoriented and irrational.  Hypoxia?  SH_

_Agitated emergence more likely.  I love you._

***

Later, in the evening, John is standing at the foot of Alex’s hospital bed with his arms tightly crossed over his chest, his face drawn in concentration, concern and a touch of jealousy as Alex responds slowly to a dose of pain medicine and falls asleep.  “John, your opinion,” Sherlock mumbles as he walks past him to the door, the back of his neck going damp at being called _my darling_ again, in front of John, which is not to say he is entirely finished analysing it.

“It’s just the anesthesia.  Delirium.  He’s under observation, right?  So they’ll have an eye on it.  He’s not likely to hurt himself, if that’s your concern.  He can’t -- run off.  Or should I say, people don’t _usually_ run off.”

Sherlock ignores that.  “Mmm.  On average less than six percent of adult patients receiving general anesthesia experience emergence delirium.  Too much anesthetic?  What variables would be in play?” 

“It’s not fully understood.  It’s definitely not his first experience with general anesthesia, though, right?  He was under for more than four hours, you said, so --“ John looks away. 

“The mother was not successfully revived,” Sherlock remarks, rubbing his fingertips together.

“Must be something to it.  Hard to say without looking at any of the reports.  We should go.”

“How long.  This.”

“Varies.  A couple days.  Some effects can last weeks.  Let’s go.  Come, love.” John herds Sherlock out of the room gently.  “Look.  A day or two should do wonders for him, psychologically.  Physically, well, he’ll need like, two good months minimum, you know.”

“Mmm.”

They walk out of the ward and head down a flight of stairs for the lobby.

“By Easter he’ll be all back to normal, I think.  Uhm.  Yeah.  Kind of pale, you.  Love, hey.  He’s got through, that’s the most important thing.  It’s this way, isn’t it?  Yeah.”

The thought of the valves and drains in Alex’s arms and chest are making everything itch.  It shouldn’t be happening after so long, but it is.  There is no sense in pointing that out, however.  “Mmhmm.”

“Hey, you okay?”

John pushes the door aside and Sherlock stares down at the screen of his phone, which has buzzed in his coat.  “Want to go for a coffee?  Eat something?  Go home?”

_Couldn’t wait for a date?  Rumours continue to fly about the uncoupled duo everyone slated as the most unlikely pairing of last year!  Photo:  self-styled detective Sherlock Holmes (43) hitting the street with Dr. John Watson in happier times.  City sleuther Holmes (left) dons a gold ring that has been linked to socialite Lana-Anna Kershova (22).  Crime blogger and army veteran Dr. John Watson, at ease with a new lady friend.  More photos online - >> _

Sherlock coughs lightly.  “While I’m thinking of it.  Oleg has a favour to ask of you.”

“Wh -- who’s Oleg?” John asks, his eyes scoping the street for an oncoming cab.

“The nose in Jermyn Street.  You met him recently.”

“Oh, that Russian perfume maker?  Jesus,” John mutters, just before realising it’s odd that Sherlock should know anything about it. 

“For obvious reasons, he would like to see your friend again.”  Sherlock buttons his coat, his eyes fixed on John’s. 

“What’s so obvious.”  John straightens his back and neck, disliking the obliqueness of the exchange.  “Besides the fact that he was out of line, sniffing at her?”

“He is quite likely the best in London at creating complex groupings of scents, John.  He needs a few seconds to conceptualise one -- ”

“So they put up with it.  That’s one of the oldest -- never mind.  Does he sort of do that to everyone?”

“No.”

“He’s sniffed you, like that?  You have a -- colour?”

“Lavender.”

“Hmm.  He hasn’t licked you, though?”

“No.”

“He came damned close to licking Kadi on the _neck_.  Not passing on the message, sorry.  So, coffee, or?  Home?”

_Kadi._

***

 _Warm -- John’s palm.  Soap -- detergent.  Shirt sleeve._ Sherlock opens his eyes to see John quite alert -- _no.  Showered, dressed, and alert._   His first concern is that they will be late to the tailor’s but a moment’s consideration, based on John’s calm, proud smile and the angle of the shadows near the bedroom window, is enough to assure him that it is not yet nine in the morning.  “Breakfast,” John says, “whenever you’re ready for it.” He’s bursting with satisfaction over whatever he’s made and can’t wait to show it off.  Sherlock reaches up for him and pulls him closer, deciding from traces of flour and berry juice on his knuckles that it’s most certainly griddle cakes and currants.  He lets John pull him out into the kitchen and he sees he is correct, but there is also sweetened clotted cream for them, tea with a very dark, molasses-like honey ( _divine_ ) and a bowl of sliced grapes and bananas.  He is duly impressed with that, as well as John’s employment of berry juice some minutes later, and the excellent bath that follows.  He hardly wants to reopen his eyes and get out.  His soldier’s knees wouldn’t bear much more, though.  As it is, kneeling over the bathtub at the angle he is must be killing him, but the bed is far softer and he is sighing and humming as he kisses his phoenix, climbing over him and rubbing against him, sucking tiny marks along his neck and winding him up again.  “Finish this later,” he says. “Happy birthday, by the way,” he adds. “Know how I’ll want you tonight?  Sit up.”

“Later.  Surprise me.”

“All right, can do.”

 _I love you.  I love you, I love you with all my heart.  Madman._ “Okay.”

***

“Good morning, we have the jacket brought with you for the fit,” Frederick says, greeting John with a handshake and taking his large paper carry-bag, which contains the woolen tweed present-in-progress from Sherlock.  John’s ears are burning pink and his eyes are wide and greedy; Sherlock had melted John down in a seventeen-minute cab ride with the touch of those long, beautiful fingers, which had merely brushed and rubbed his palm in the back seat.  _How.  How does he do these things to me, damn it._  John shifts his weight from one foot to the other and glances over at his now-expressionless, wicked friend, who is marveling internally at the results of his first attempt at an obscure form of Indian acupressure.

“Wait in my office, please, and please choose from among the silks which are on my desk, Mr. Holmes,” Frederick says to Sherlock, smiling at John politely, and gestures toward his workroom; a ginger is standing on the Brazilian’s pedestal with what John thinks looks most like a golfing costume, basted; they are pinning the waist and chatting about the depth of the pockets.  He stares at Sherlock as he passes and says, “Oh.  How do you do?”

“Silks,” John growls, following Sherlock.  “Why do they.  Flirting with you here,” he mutters.

“A client of mine, ten months ago.  Night sky blue herringbone-weave it is,” Sherlock says, his eyes passing over five bolts of material as they enter the room. “I love you,” he says, straight into John’s ear.  “I’m very distracted.”

“I’m not,” John says.

“How fortunate that you’re what’s distracting me,” Sherlock replies and crushes his lips against John’s.

“There,” John says, muffled by kisses, pulling Sherlock into the changing area and pulling the curtains shut rather roughly behind them.  _Fuck yeah._  

“Y -- ahh, J -- “

John is determined, indeed.  Sherlock is reeling and has to sit down on a small bench, knocking over a few gentlemen’s magazines and a large swatch-book.  They have several minutes to themselves afterward, and by the time the ginger man has gone, Frederick finds John standing serenely in front of the silks, a eucalyptus drop melting over his tongue, with his hands behind his back and Sherlock at his side, crowding him only slightly more than usual.

“The dark blue, after all,” John confirms.  “So.  Fitted blouse, collarless, cuff-less, button-less,” he says, before Sherlock can open his mouth. 

The tailor nods as though he’s heard it all a hundred times before.  _“Sehr leicht zu entfernen,”_  the man says to himself as he makes notes and glances over at Sherlock, as if to communicate that one such shirt will not be enough.

Frederick plans to line John’s jacket in a rich blue and black pinstriped material, and suggests black horn buttons; he praises John for his ability to stand straight and still.  Sherlock closes his eyes for several seconds and smiles to himself.

John takes Sherlock for Chinese food; their (shared) shift into eating home-cooked meals makes even this arguably traditional fare seem more special -- or perhaps it is the way Sherlock openly flirts while he eats, making John slip up with his chopsticks enough that he asks for a _bloody fork._  “You’re killing me,” he grumbles, before breaking into an embarrassed grin.  “Frederick knows.”

“Knows what.” Sherlock laps a drop of sauce from his chopsticks.

“This.”  John clears his throat and sips at his tiny cup of jasmine tea.  “Damn, this is hot.  So you were saying something...about Jens Lindberg’s work.  What about it.”

“Later.”

***

“When Jens showed me a few of his newest floorplans and elevations,” Sherlock says, merrily slipping a jimmie and a hairpin into a temporary lock.  “I thought...you’d like -- oh, hell.  Ah.  There.”  The lock snaps open and Sherlock’s lips twitch up at the corners.  “This.”

John’s mouth opens at about the same rate as the door.  “Oh---fff,” he says, as though he’s been elbowed in the chest. 

“The etched glass floor you’re walking on now is six inches thick.  Carved from behind and lit from below at night.  A copy of a relief map of the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.  American spouse.  Sentiment.”

“Whose is this.”

“No idea.  Has a view, though.  What do you think?  Worth the thirty-three million pounds unfinished?”

John walks ahead, carefully (glass, after all) through the probably-teak interior, straight toward a picture window with a staggering panorama of the Thames.  He stands and gapes out at it, feeling Bond-like and in need of a cocktail to finish off the scene, when he feels his friend put his nose against the back of his neck, before going down on one knee and reaching for his belt.  He revises the idea about the cocktail.  “Wh -- oh, Jesus, yeah.  Do it.  Need you, fuck, yeah.  Ah, that.”  Sherlock’s fingers and lips are on John’s cock as fast as he can grasp the edge of the window to stay upright.  He is staring, crazed, out over half of London, one hand wrapped tightly in Sherlock’s hair, shaking all over when he explodes hard, thrusting into and against the pressure of Sherlock’s tongue -- it is one of the most surreal orgasms he can remember, not far off from another fantasy of his, involving a pounding on his knees, on a rooftop, preferably in full sun.  “You want it?” he asks, smiling and letting his forehead bump down onto the plate glass in front of him.  “Ah, good.  You’re so good.  So good.”

“The cruel facts of refraction, soldier,” Sherlock says helplessly, swiping a finger over his beautiful mouth before he starts the nervous snickering that’s been pulling at him since he’d come into the place. 

“What.”

“By then the tile-layers will be back from lunch to finish that wall, over there.”

“Sher -- “

“Tea near the door that was still a bit warm.  What.  It’s my birthday, you said so yourself.”

John claps a hand over his forehead and rubs his brow.  “Yeah.  Shit.  Think they’d join in, though?”

Sherlock pulls himself to his full height.  “This is the second occasion you’ve mentioned someone joining in.”

“What?”

“You told me a story in which there was a chance, in your estimation, of us being joined by an opera usher.”

“I -- look, just stories.  What.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick over John.  “I would never share you.”  His tone leaves no doubt behind. 

_What was that for?_  “Sharing isn’t an option, no,” John replies, and they stare at each other for a moment, each trying to feel the other out.  “I was just making a joke about kind of -- uhm, you know, like some of the guys in the army -- joining,” he  says.

The glimmer that springs up in Sherlock’s eyes is not entirely unexpected; John turns away and grins as Sherlock goes to open the door.  _Gotcha, beautiful._

____________________

* German texts:

_\- [Master, title] Pay attention.  Everything is perfectly all right._

_\- No, I don't want to have anything to do with them.  Please!_

_\- Control yourself._

_(at the tailor's) - Very easily removed._


	11. Endeavour hard

“Alex.  Jens has expressed concern --”

“Sherlock, how _could_ you?” 

“With no misgivings whatsoever.”  Sherlock crosses his legs and huffs at Alex, who is feeling better on this third-day-after, much to Sherlock's unvoiced relief.

“But was it your place to tell him, I ask?  And yet.” Alex bites the inside of his cheek and sighs.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and folds his arms.  “Is it my place to tell you he’s left Peter?”

“Oh, Lord.  He _did_ it.  Tell me what you know.  Please.”

“The chap had anticipated it, tormented him for weeks, called at all hours, threatened to take an overdose of sleeping pills, called from the side of a bridge in the night claiming he was about to leap off, cried outside his window while playing the guitar, shaved his head and claimed he was chronically ill, the usual fare for a mentally unstable playwright.  Meanwhile, _you_ dallied about, didn’t call, pined like a teenaged girl, refused a proper job, took casual leave of an honest man’s feelings and pretended you were _not_ chronically ill, _and would have what?_  Claimed aliens landed in Great Peter Street, cut you apart and _left that ticking valve_ behind in the night!”

“It’s horrid,” Alex wails.  “I can’t sleep, I sound like a machine!  It _clicks_ , it’s _disgusting!_ ”

“I won’t ask you to stuff it in your pocket,” Sherlock replies, smiling sardonically.  A moment later he considers the odds that Alex will _not_ find that amusing --

“If you had a heart, you might _stuff it in your arse!”_ Alex seethes, though the sharp intake of breath is from pain; his eyes brighten with anger and tears.  “No danger, there, however.”

“Heart?  Still slow on the uptake?” Sherlock fires back, though his friend has managed to sting him, which annoys him.  “Alex.  We digress,” he says, finally.  “He’s here, in fact, listening through the door, if I’m not mistaken.”

“John’s here?  So ask him in, by all means.”

“No.  Jens is here.”

“Oh.  No, no.  Not yet.  I simply can’t.” 

“You’ll see him.” Sherlock stands.

“I can’t.  I’m a complete wreck.” Alex swipes at his eyes.  “Listen to me, I’m going mad,” he whispers.  “I’m out of my foolish head.  Oh, mercy.”

“Text me.  Alex, enough.  See him.”

“No.  Don’t leave yet.  Sherlock, I spoke too harshly, but you’re dreadful when you want to be.  If I could only understand _why_ you want to be?  Are you cross with me for some reason?”

“No, of course I’m not.”

Alex reaches for Sherlock’s hand in an attempt to shake it.  “I know I was blathering when I woke up and if I said -- anything foolish, please overlook it.  This _clicking_.  I want to _scream_ but it’s so nice you’ve come here.  Well.  You see, it’s going poorly with me.  I don’t know what to say, to him.  To anyone, really.”

“Matters of the heart are not a strong point of mine.  You know that better than most.”

“They are, in fact.  I wonder who ever convinced you otherwise?”

Sherlock glares at a readout near Alex’s arm.

“I know what you’re thinking.  Rubbish.  You do know, let me tell you, it’s a pity it’s gone so far,” Alex declares.

“Alex.”

“I’d gladly spear him through, on my virgin nib.” Alex leans back and gasps at the pain of chuckling aloud and crying inside at once.  “Bring him to me sometime.”

Sherlock smiles, too, despite the burn in his gut, which is telling him to leave, and quickly.  “I might do,” he replies, and smooths two wilder graying tufts of hair near Alex’s forehead.  “Now buck up.  He’s Swedish, for God’s sake,” Sherlock says quietly, and with that he is gone.

***

                _OMG you were right.  Alex_

_Of course I was.  About what?  SH_

_Joking.  Congratulations.  SH_

Sherlock glances back at John from the dark living room window; John is sitting in his armchair with his legs out, ankles crossed, his lips curling forward over the rim of a teacup, his eyebrows leaping at something he has just read in his novel.  Suddenly he looks up at Sherlock and sets down the book and cup.  “Slipped my mind.  Yeah,” he says, mostly to himself.  “Smelled that chicken up here and just -- hang on.”  John stands up with a sigh and runs downstairs, returning shortly with a plastic Tesco bag, which contains a two-inch stack of papers.  “My Slovakian patient’s wife came in today, you remember Jozef Kováč?  Yeah.  For you, apparently, some stuff about -- bees?  Hives?”

“Oh?”  Sherlock starts pulling out yellowed, photocopied texts, some spiral-bound, humming to himself.  _Requeening.  Wild population transfer!  Excellent.  Queen excluders, swarm traps.  Propolis in alternative medicine._ “Yes.  Mmm.”

“You really like that stuff,” John remarks, returning to his chair. 

“Yes.”  Sherlock has selected a monograph for himself on wax moth larvae and is climbing onto his armchair with it, folding his long legs and pulling his dressing gown around his chest a bit childishly. 

“Uhm, yeah.  But -- really, love -- ” John rests his head against his hand and studies Sherlock, who looks up at him with a sudden guarded look that shuts John’s mouth.   _You’re too bloody talented to go off and tend -- hives, and.  Another big article in The Guardian today about police work and errors in investigations and -- do something, love, before shit starts going down and someone takes advantage -- you’re sort of locking yourself away here writing --_

The tension in the room has swollen like -- pride.  John exhales.  -- _Excellent forensics texts._

“What, John.” The monograph hits Sherlock’s leg and he folds his hands.

 _God damn it -- cooking, bees --_ “Nice -- hobby.  Just, you thrive on working with the police.  Thrive, have thrived --”

Sherlock face freezes over completely. 

“So...nothing else is happening with the pen drive you gave Lestrade?” John asks, genuinely interested.

***

John had nearly managed to forget what it is like to set off his friend's once-far-shorter fuse.   _Awful.  If the deaf hollow sucking sound just before an explosion reaches the brain could be extended, it would sound like that._  He spends the rest of the evening alone, with the bedroom door shut tight behind his shoulders, and the hair on the back of his neck all too ticklish.  He considers sleeping upstairs and then decides that’s out of the question; he isn’t even angry.  He marches noisily down the hallway to indicate his approach and opens the door.  Sherlock is on the bed, texting, his knees pulled up to his chest.  His brows are drawn over his beautiful but icy gray eyes, and he appears to be in the middle of a tense exchange.

“Going to sleep,” John informs him.  Going by the questioning expression on his friend’s face, he thinks John means _upstairs_ , and goes back to slamming his thumbs against the screen in front of him.  John gestures at the phone.  “Take it in the living room.”

Sherlock stands and swishes out past him, but it appears that he has truly gone to finish the texts, because he returns just after John has finished his evening routine in the bathroom and crawled into bed, back to the door.  He is surprised but relieved to feel Sherlock curl up against his back and put his arm around his chest; he hadn’t wanted to talk; he takes the hand in front of him and kisses it, squeezing it in acknowledgement.  _So, yeah.  I hit a raw nerve.  Not like it’s going to go away, though._

***

Sherlock kicks John in the night, waking them both from a poor sleep.  They decide to have some water (Sherlock needs to think and John can’t go back to sleep right away anyhow).  John finally asks Sherlock to describe what he’d dreamed, hoping to calm him down, but Sherlock stands, bent slightly, at the living room window and looks out; he seems to be holding his breath.

“It’ll help if you just get it out,” John suggests, thinking that is _not_ the sort of rhetoric he would usually resort to.  He seems to have caught Sherlock off guard, too. 

“No, it won’t _help_.  Well.  It’s merely -- that I was standing at a window, looking out at a view of a certain expanse of lawn.  Gardens I used to visit.”

“A real place?”

“Yes, I just said as much.”

“Then what?”

“Watching the sun setting over the trees.  I’d turned on a lamp in the room.  A moth flew toward me from out in the garden and started to wreck himself to reach my lamp.  So I watched him smash into and struggle against the glass.  The powder popping off his wings.  With the sort of fascination that comes with a complete lack of means to relate to that sort of determination, without choice.” Sherlock seems to smile reflectively to himself, which puts John on edge.

“You see yourself as -- that moth, love?  Or?” John asks cautiously.

“No!” Sherlock answers even more impatiently.

“Take it easy.”

“Don’t you see?"

"Not -- really." _Hell, how can I._  

"Until the moth entered the scene I hadn’t explicitly _noticed_ the window.” Sherlock puts a hand over his mouth and rubs his lips.

“It was a dream, though.  Things sometimes come up and evolve sort of as it goes, so.  What.”

“No.”

“You were indoors, though.  Let’s go.  You’re cold.”

“The _window_ was relevant.  It was _quite_ important.”

“Come.”

“No matter how elusive the barrier, it is a barrier.  Don’t you understand?”

John stares out at the street.  He isn’t sure what to say to that.  “Actually, without the window you wouldn’t have seen the moth.  It’s clear, and you got to observe all of it -- the garden, the moth.  Sherlock.  Come now, you’re barefooted.  More water?” he offers.

“Mmm.”  Sherlock unexpectedly turns and puts his head against John’s shoulder, which reminds John of a horse poking his muzzle into his trainer’s hand.  He closes his fingers around a few curls of his hair.  It occurs to him, now that he is more awake, that something far larger is going on than Sherlock taking offense at _why bees_ or other suggestions of the sort.  _Vilnius?  Mycroft?  Your sick friend, who calls you darling?  Everything?  Me?_ _Something.  Whatever it is.  It will come out if it needs to, another time._   He decides he will try to stay alert and be there, even as a yawn seems to split him in two.

Sherlock excuses himself and closes himself in the bathroom.  He feels lower than he has in -- _no._ _An age_.  He rubs his eyes.  Placing a time marker on that thought would open far more than he cares to touch.

“Can I come in, love?” John is knocking.  “Check what’s happening here?” he asks, pointing at his eye, which is irritated and wet, when Sherlock opens the door.

“Ah.  Lash,” Sherlock says, poking quickly at the corner of John’s eye, and taking full advantage of their proximity to kiss his forehead.  “One of mine.  John, you’re a very attractive man.”

“So are you.” John titters to himself, a bit embarrassed.  “And you’re the last person in the world who would overlook the importance of a window, my love.  Come.  You look exhausted.”  John puts a hand on Sherlock’s hip and moves to guide him back to bed.

“I’m not.”

“No?”

Sherlock stretches out on the bed but there is nothing encouraging in his movements.  “No.  John, you asked me a question.  The answer is, not enough.  Gill reopened two cases out of twelve which are of importance.”

 _It’s Greg._  “And are you involved -- ?"

“Superficially.”

 John groans as he settles into bed, batting at his pillow a bit.  “So you aren’t given more -- uhm.  Leeway, I guess, to work on them.”

“It’s a compromise.”

“Meaning?” John asks, licking his lips.

“What did you think of the paper?” Sherlock asks, suddenly rolling on his side, toward John.

“Paper.  Oh yeah, even more philosophical this time.  It would make a good talk at a discussion panel on ethics.  Of organ removal in autopsies.  Sort of a checklist for a person who is trying to understand -- well, the logic of objections.”

“It was your idea.”

“I don’t remember having an idea like that, but.  You ran with it in the right direction.”

“Okay.”

“Tell you something.”  John pets Sherlock’s hair behind one of his ears.  “Don’t laugh?”

“I will endeavour not to.”

“Endeavour hard.  Right.   _Je veux être avec toi,”*_ John recites from memory, and coughs a little.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes more than says, and stares at John intently in the darkness.  _Beautiful soldier.  My John._

“ _Pour toujours,_ ” John adds, remembering it with a delay that he might even apologise for -- if his lips were still in his own power.

 

____________________

_* French texts:_

_\- I want to be with you.  For always._


	12. No need to explain

Sherlock has received and signed off the latest home-delivery of food items and is tossing some of them into the refrigerator when he hears a step-tap on the stairs nearby that could only be that of an umbrella-toting sibling.  It isn’t even raining, for once; Sherlock hums to himself and steels his nerves for incoming, vexing topics. He has a few of his own in wait.

Mycroft pushes the kitchen door open and looks about him as though the ceiling were covered in parasites.  He blows out a breath and rocks back on his heels.  “John’s love of adrenaline has found a new outlet?”

“Do tell, or better yet -- ”

“Eating things you concoct in this laboratory of culinary horrors, and enjoying it -- I admit, he is far madder than I’d originally surmised.”

“Brother.”

“Good morning.”

“I’d offer you a biscuit but you’re bursting through that waistcoat,” Sherlock sighs, testily setting a carton of eggs on the top shelf and slamming the fridge door.

“The Pearson Filicide,” Mycroft begins.

“And?”   _Tea for my John. Balsamic vinegar, 240 millilitres.  Herbes de Provence.  Pepper in integrated grinder-thingy.  Olives, mixed, pitted._ Sherlock opens the last carton and piles cans, jars, rice, rye flour and a bag of dried lentils on the table.

“We’d agreed,” Mycroft drawls, lowering his voice. 

“They were closed.  Some already in the courts.”

“You were _not_ formally called -- ”

“An innocent man accused of beating his own daughter to death.”

“Touched a nerve?” Mycroft asks.

“Shut it.”

“And where is John?  I’d like a word.”

Sherlock frowns.  "Out."

Mycroft grinds his umbrella tip into the flooring a bit.  “Ah, of course.  It’s Tuesday and he's in his usual diligent pursuit of fantasy.  Another time, then.  How is the heart-patient friend?”

“Discharged last evening, mending at home.  The file on the mother was of interest to the anesthesiologist.”

“Of course.  My pleasure.” Mycroft shifts his weight.  He seems to be getting tired of standing, therefore Sherlock does not move to sit.  “I’ve given some consideration to Sir Rodney Ellis Shrewsbury, Junior, Sherlock.”

“Are my congratulations in order?” Sherlock says, flashing his incisors.

Mycroft glares at his own hands.  “You might ‘Google’ him.  If you go in for that sort of thing.  You won’t find much, just essential biographical _bits_.”

“He is...?”

“A precedent.  A loophole.  An exit.  A last resort.  A happy ending.  A dead end.  Choose your perspective and -- act accordingly.”

Sherlock straightens at that, strides away and snaps up his laptop from the living room table.  “Rodney Ellis Shrewsbury, Junior,” he mouths, opening the screen.  “Insomnia?” he asks, as Mycroft slowly ambles after him from the kitchen.

“Never, why?” the elder man inquires.

“Then you _are_ slipping,” Sherlock concludes.

_“Sleeping.”_

“Yes.”

“Come out with it!”

“The iOS backdoor, opening at midnight?” Sherlock says, tapping at his laptop body with his middle finger (a gesture he has doubtlessly picked up from prolonged exposure to John, Mycroft has already noted).  “The stick-poking by your night surveillance minion ends _now_ or I take things into my own hands.”  _With a little help from Nikita -- seventeen years old and still missing from your ‘ultra-secret’ payroll, arsehole --_

“All poking aside, now.  You’ve found our man, there?” Mycroft gestures at the laptop.

“Sir Rodney Ellis Shrewsbury, Junior, deceased.  Yup,” Sherlock’s lips pop.

“Read up, brother.  You’ve got time for one deduction before supper.”

Sherlock’s eyes roll and then fall on the Tesco shopping bag with bee-related articles from the Slovakian, many of which he has already perused.  “I want her hive records, Mycroft.”

“You know my position.”  Mycroft looks at Sherlock acridly.  “Hand over the family’s botanical sketches.”

“I finished the book, they’re mine,” replies Sherlock, folding his arms in a fashion that suggests he is about to regress thirty years.  “Mum gave it to me.”

Mycroft rolls his tongue around in his mouth.  “Grandmother promised it to _me_.  Her word came first, and _so did I,_ must I remind you.”

“But you don’t ‘go in for’ watercolouring,” Sherlock replies.  "Do you."

“Watercolouring?  Mmmm.  That’s how it all begins,” Mycroft says, tapping the handle of his umbrella.

This trite remark has hit strangely hard, seemingly in the stomach. Sherlock tries furiously to disambiguate it and pull himself together fast enough to answer, misses his chance, and stares down at the screen in front of him instead. He folds his hands and rests his elbows on the table. 

_Mum:  watercolouring in France, meets Hinault, begins -- me.  John:  chooses watercolours for me, presumably as advised by Alex and burning orange Kadi -- begins -- diligent pursuit of fantasy. No.  He promised.  I:  will start watercolouring with Alex, Thursday.  Begins.  Begins.  That’s how it -- all begins --_

A fourth connection fires through Sherlock's mind, freezing him. 

_No.  Watercolouring, where it began -- the gun -- little Michael Barrows’ drawing -- watercolouring it in rainbows and blood -- impossible.  Traced the message to me?  Three levels of analogue precaution.  Each destroyed.  Or were they, John?  I’m getting, you would say, ‘bloody  paranoid’._

“Read, read.  I’ll leave you to it?” Mycroft says, his eyes resting on Sherlock's ring.  “Those lentils will want soaking.  Good day.”

“Vilnius?”

“Patience.”

“Not the point.”   _He hasn't traced a thing.  Excellent._

***

“A friend at work at the _Colourmen_ showed me this,” Kadi says, pulling a folded tabloid page from her handbag, with one of the same photographs Sherlock had viewed several days before on his phone, showing John and Kadi laughing and looking happily at each other at a cafe.  John’s hand looks to be cupped over hers, though it is merely a trick of the flash and flattened perspective, if one submits it to careful scrutiny (and one _has_ ). 

 _Oh, shit._   “Jeez,” John grumbles.  “Not that again.”

“Why are they writing about us?” she asks.  “You’re a well-known _crime_ blogger?  I didn’t make the connection.”

John frowns and clears his throat.  “Hmm. Yeah.”

“That means your boyfriend is the detective, _Holmes?_ ” Kadi covers her mouth for a moment and laughs nervously.  “They say he's -- ”

“Right,” John interjects, pointing down at the parody that has been made with their photograph. 

“Yeah.  John, I’ve got a bit of a problem, see.  Okay, you’re a doctor, maybe you’ve even noticed.  I’m about six weeks along, now, and -- ”

“Oh, that’s nice.” John flashes a tight smile.  _Hadn’t noticed._

“Thanks!  So far everything’s fine, okay.  But my fiancé lives in Cannes, and he doesn’t know yet, and, how can I put this.  I don’t need him questioning my feelings right now.  It’s been a lot harder to carry on long-distance than I thought it would be, and that's the main reason I need to finish up my MA project and leave for France.”

“Yeah. Do you need a referral?”

“Maybe.  Sure, yeah.  So." Kadi folds her lovely, thin hands nervously.  "Now you know why this type of publicity --”

“Yeah.”

“Can we find somewhere less frequented by paparazzi, or whoever is doing this?”

“Yeah.  I’ll think about it.”

“We could even meet at my parents’ place, it’s central.”

“Right, maybe.  Sorry about this.”  _Shit._

 _“Okay.  Jean.  Comment allez-vous?”_ *

_“Très bien, merci beaucoup.”_

_“Qu'avez-vous fait le week-end dernier?”_

_“Week-end?  J'étais avec mon chéri._ Uhm. _Explication?”_ John breaks into a charming smile.

_“No.  Garde tes explications!”_

_________________

* _French texts:_

_\- Okay.  John.  How are you doing?_

_\- Very well, thank you very much._

_\- What did you do last weekend?_

_\- Weekend?  I was with my beloved (man).  Uhm.  Explain?_

_\- No.  No need for explanation!_

***

“Here,” Sherlock says, holding out a glass of water, which Alex accepts gratefully. At home at least, he is a mild, obedient patient.  “How are you feeling, now?”

“Swimmingly.  Horridly." Alex smiles from his sofa.  "Anyhow, a nurse will be bringing by a new prescription for me any time, now.  You’ll need to take out some things for me, I just realised I have my paints in a drawer in my desk.  Paper, too.”

Alex is chatty and flighty over Jens' rather laconic but meaningful declarations.  Sherlock attempts to listen, with thinly-disguised amusement, and suggests that he shouldn’t overexcite himself, which leads to a tale about Alex’s recent experience at a newish coffee bar he’d happened into, wholly unprepared, as he explains, for the heavy-handed overtures therein:  “I’d no idea drinking decaf, unaccompanied -- well.  So he walked over, shoved his trouser buttons my way and says, ‘I wonder what else you could do to me,’ which is about as absurd as -- well.  Of course, I’m thinking, ‘good afternoon'."

"Obviously a prosthesis," Sherlock interjects.

"What?  Do you think so?  And suddenly he’s asking me, ‘Top or bottom?’  And I said it:  ‘good afternoon’, and he got hissy in an instant, as though I were playing at something, while I was entirely at the ‘well I might have incidentally glanced in your general direction at the window’ stage -- and he says, volunteers, really, ‘I’m a top’, so I say, sorry?  Oh?  Topping -- _only_ , then?  Ever?  What does that _even mean_?  Sweet Moses.”  Alex shakes his head and picks up his water glass.

Sherlock cannot recall having a similar conversation in his life.  He gazes down at his open paint tin ( _French ochre, burnt sienna, raw umber, raw sepia, pthalo blue, ultramarine deep_ ), though half of him is howling inside, _Explain._

“Because you have to be quite self-secure and in control of your body to take it like a man.  Really. That's what I think. And then in about five minutes, it started again.  Another.  I played the demure snob card hoping he’d leave me be and I hear, ‘Well, I need to know if we’re even compatible, why waste time talking’.   _Talking_.  Such a blatant _filter_ , now.  Because why waste time _talking_ when you can have a mute _shag_.  When I listened in, it was quite the common come-on.  Seriously.”

Sherlock is aware that his cheeks have changed colour but he raises an eyebrow.  “So, you’re feeling better?”

“Lord, yes.  Sorry.  I -- perhaps --”

“No, no.  Oxygenation.  Euphoria.”  _Interesting._

“Mine, of course.” Alex smiles charmingly and drops his eyes to his cup.  “It’s the codeine.  Sorry. It makes me a bit slutty.  I need to have something else, that’s why a nurse -- I mentioned that.  Sorry.”

Sherlock stares for a moment and finally smiles smugly.  “You clearly haven’t been to many clubs.”

“I haven’t gone in for the clubs in years, really.  I dance poorly even to the English musicals.”  The artist laughs ironically and winces.  “Have you, though?  Been to many clubs?”

“Not as myself, no.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Alex.”

“Well.  I’m not stupid, John wasn’t your first and only.”  Alex sighs emphatically.  “You’ll never convince me that was beginner’s luck, when I met you.  You knew perfectly well what you were doing to me.”

Sherlock considers his answer quite carefully. “I couldn’t know how you’d respond,” he says, simply.

“Ha.  That was the least of your worries, I'd say."

"Was it?"

"In retrospect, I can’t believe you chatted me up in front of _John_.”

 _Neither can I._   “We weren’t involved at the time.”   _Irrelevant._

“Well, at the very least, I met Jens and you.”

“That you did.”  Sherlock picks up his mug of coffee and takes several long gulps. 

“So you’ve clubbed.”

Sherlock shrugs ambivalently.

Alex continues.  “With my last boyfriend, there was no hope of clubbing.  Since he was a priest.  It made -- a -- oh, dear.  You’ve swallowed -- the wrong way?  Put your arms up, maybe.  Are you all right, Sherlock?  Sorry.  I’m sorry.”

Sherlock nods and sputters.  “Okay,” he croaks, his face pink.  “Mmm.  Achh.”

“Sorry, again.  We’ll talk about -- the recent upheaval in parliament?”

“The same one or was there another one?” Sherlock wheezes.

“I imagine there was one, must have been one,” Alex says, and takes a sip of water.

“And who’s come out on top?”

“Ah!  Ha ha!”  Alex is already laughing again and looks outstandingly _alive_.

“What happened to the holy one?” Sherlock asks before he can think it though.

“Ha.  Well.  I was in hospital.  Ill, shortly before I met you, a month or so.  I caught a flu and pneumonia and was having a bit of arrhythmia, so I was there.  But when I got home, he came to see me after a _week_ , and he, oh Lord, how can I explain.  Well, he put a leg over.  And I hate to be -- you see.  Trapped in.  And we were there, together, and he put his leg over mine, and I said, ‘darling, don’t’ -- and.  It was dreadful."

 _You mistook me for your priest in hospital.  Appalling?  Maybe._ "What."

"He said, ‘sorry, force of habit’.  Sherlock, do you understand what he was implying?"

 _Habit.  Repulsive._  “One of those -- sisters, then, on the side?” Sherlock asks, and is taken aback by Alex’s sudden laugh.

“Ha ha!  No!  Habit as in, it was his usual custom -- ah ha ha!  You’re just outrageous.  _Sister!_  Ouch -- it hurts to laugh, ouch.  Achh.”

“He'd already broken vows,” Sherlock remarks.  “Unreliable.”

“So are we going to paint or talk about sluttish exes?” Alex asks. 

“Since they are mutually exclusive activities.” Sherlock waves his paint tin.

“You wanted to try drop-in techniques?  Fetch us some water, you know where I keep the dishes.  And my materials, third drawer on the left, in the writing desk.”  Alex rubs his face and shakes his head.  “I’m sorry.  Codeine makes me go all foolish, always has.  Far worse than alcohol, honestly.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock mumbles, standing.  “Glasses or saucers?”

“Saucers.  Oh.  Maybe you want these for your migraines?” Alex holds the bottle of pain-killers out to Sherlock.  “I won’t be taking them, and I’d just throw them away, anyway.”

 _Eighteen of them.  Yes._ “Of course. Thank you.” 

***

Sherlock’s conversation with Alex has affected him far more than he would like to admit; Alex is the only man who has always behaved, by virtue of the way they had met, as if he were -- _like him_.  Sherlock has spent a substantial part of his life blocking out identity and roles whenever possible, preferring to allow _that_ sphere (where and when it has existed) to have an organic life about it -- _above all, one that does not require discussions which interfere with biological imperatives, and pleasure, at a given moment._   He still does not like referring to _pleasure_ , either; at an abstract level, it is potentially manipulative and destructive and should be carefully considered as a motive; describing his own overtly is tricky.  Even so, John wrenches it from him often enough, by pleasuring him beyond belief and then asking if he _likes_ it, or if it _feels good_. 

_Submission._  When he looks back, the only time Sherlock has ever seen John appear _submissive_ in bed, at all, dates to the first time he’d ever moved to undress him, in Norfolk, and John was reluctantly letting him do it.  A thought occurs:  _John intends to give pleasure, above all._   _And when he asks for me, it is an active and receptive desire for pleasure.  Oh.  Obvious.  Is it obvious?  Now it is obvious._   To Sherlock, the ability to put that to words is of supreme importance.   _And John does not consider me submissive, when he -- oh._

“John.”

“Hey.”

“How -- was work.”

John is seated in a metal kitchen chair, bent over the bin, peeling sweet potatoes which he intends to cut up and bake in olive oil and sea salt for Sherlock.  “Work.  Work was all right.  A lot of ear infections, actually.  The wind, you know.  Flu, untreated colds, secondary infections, all catching up with people.  Head lice outbreak in schools, too.  Shared caps, and.  Yeah.”

“Mmm.  How is your head?”

“What?” John asks.

“Not lice.  Pressure.  You have a headache.”

“Yeah, I do.  Nah, it’s.  Good.  I’m good.”  John smiles.  “You okay?”

“I am,” Sherlock says.

“Sure?  Looking a bit warm.”

 _Choose your perspective, act accordingly._ “An attractive.  Well.  Jumper.”   _Nnngh_.

“Yeah, this is the one you chose.  Horn buttons.  Good wool.”

“Of course.”

“You’re in for it,” John points at Sherlock with his paring knife.   

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and takes to plucking his own shirt buttons open.  

“Uhm.”  John’s potato drops through his fingers a bit, as he watches the third, fourth and fifth -- then he stands.   

He looks boyishly pleased as he comes closer for the first, gentle kiss to Sherlock's neck.

The knife, still clutched in his dominant hand, adds just the right touch of irony.

_Diligent pursuit of fantasy --_


	13. Not secondary

_Your preferred art supply shop.  SH_

_Hi Sherlock :) L. Cornelisson & Son.  Alex_

_Competent after-hours nurse?  SH_

_So far, very.  Thank you!  Alex_

***

 _Dead-fish eyes as armour_.  Nikita is the first in his family to have been born outside of Russia.  This is a deduction of Sherlock’s and not a viable point of conversation to the teenager, nor is much else; he regards most things with as much enthusiasm as he would show to the surface of a broken monitor.  Though his eyes are empty, the rest of him is full, soft and rounded by inactivity and rich food, the smells of which waft through the boy’s room seemingly at all hours through a vent clumsily connected to the kitchen.  Nikita’s grandmother and mother speak next to no English but insist on walking past the boy’s door frequently to look in ostentatiously and make remarks they are convinced Sherlock does not understand.  His Russian is very rusty, his Serbian nearly forgotten, but by the fourth round ( _“Still they are with that computer.  They are doing something with that computer.  They are continually looking at the screen for some reason.”_ ) he cannot hold back and hisses, “ _Элементарно_ ”*.  Nikita almost smiles.

The ladies are blissfully unacquainted with the truth, that their cutlet-and-potato-plumped youngster is a coding mastermind on the brink of being recruited and/or perilously misused (depending mostly who reaches him first; the rest is semantics), thus the boy has a free hand to act as he pleases.  Today he has written up a false medical leave from school and is working on an elegant encoding algorithm for Sherlock as a test for a far more delicate job.  Just as Nikita starts one of his ( _stereotypical_ ) anti-government swearing binges for Sherlock’s benefit, the urge to text John hits and recedes yet again; the Iphone is at home.  As it will be more frequently.

“Your phone too,” Nikita is saying, their thoughts nearly intersecting briefly, perhaps because Sherlock had moved to pat at his pocket.  “Obsolescence of models?  Bullfuckingshit, I have Nokia 3310 my father had when I was just baby, from fucking ninety-nine.” 

“ _A_ Nokia, _a_ baby.  Mmm.  Public machines with no monitoring?  There aren’t any, Nikita.”  _There are, just not for me._

“Got to know where and how.”

 _I cannot even go to one without exposing the where.  Face recognition --_ “That Macintosh over there.  512K?”

“Yeah.”

“Yours?”

“Father’s.  No uplink but it has those old kind of fucked up disks --”

“Not a problem.  Get me one like that.”

“I borrow it to you.”

“Lend to.  Borrow from.”

“Yeah, whatever.  You take it home, it’s anyway a complete shit.”

“It’s _complete_ shit, not _a complete_ \-- ”

“Complete shit is English.”

Sherlock grits his teeth.  “Kadi, employed by L. Cornelisson & Sons.  An art supplier.”

Nikita grumbles and scratches himself.

“For Oleg.”

“Yeah.  What does he want.”

“K-A-D-I.  Pass me the keyboard.”

After half an hour more, he and Nikita receive disagreeably flowery, Pyrex-type bowls filled with berry-and-cheese stuffed pierogis and clotted cream from the grandmother, who has apparently decided that Sherlock is tolerable enough to feed.  Eye contact might follow, at a later date.

“That’s her.  Yes.  Address....  Student life, personal life.  Photographs.  Who...mmm.”  _I know your face.  Didier....  2010.  Banker?  Mmm._ “This investment banker chap.  After his acquittal.”

“Bankster motherfucker!  Fuck you.”

“No, no.  Leave him.  Information only.”

______________________

_* Russian text:_

_\- Elementary!  [Or:  Evidently.]_

 

***

_Pint with Greg tonight._

_OK.  SH_

_Embrasse moi pour me souhaiter bonne nuit, my beautiful phoenix._

_Je t'attendrai.  SH_

Sherlock smiles to himself as he settles on the sofa and shuts his eyes.  _Sir Rodney Ellis Shrewsbury, Junior, precedent.  No.  Poorly conceived, brother.  Very poorly played.  Diligent pursuit of fantasy:  why is his object of pursuit a fantasy.  Which part is the fantasy?  Must speak to John about alternating dull and sharp stomach pains.  Nngh.  Think!_

***

“Cheers.”  John tips his beer glass toward Lestrade.  “How’re things?”

“Sheesh.  You don’t want to know.”

“Heh.” 

“Glad you got in touch, though. Might need your advice,” Greg says.

“Sure.”  John sips.

“It’s, uh -- you know.  About Linda Snow.”

“What about her.”

“Need to give her time, I know.  At Boxing Day we sort of made a date to go out on Valentine’s Day.”

John shrugs.  “So go.”

“No, yeah.  Where I’m at is, my Mum.  Getting worse every day.  My sister quit teaching to take care of her and, well, she’s -- had it.”  Greg crosses his arms and blows out a long breath.  “End of her rope.”

“Linda’s been in dementia and hospice nursing for years.”

“I know.  We’ve talked about it a few times, on the phone.” 

“She could help you out somehow.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna look for someone to come in, maybe even a live-in.  Not sure but a live-in seems to be where we’re heading.”

“Oh, right."

“Yeah, it's that bad.”  Greg coughs noisily.  “So. I hire her and then, what.”

“What.”

“Don’t know.”

“That _she’s_ there?  Better Linda than a total unknown.”

“Awkward, if I’m paying her, and.”

“Nah.” John coughs and sniffs as a woman with overpowering perfume walks past.  Everything is putting him on edge.  He wants to ask Lestrade about the pen drive Sherlock had given him.

"Her son."

"Work it out as you go.  What's the point, worrying about it when you haven't even asked her."

“Don’t want to cock this up, John.”

“Won’t.”

After a dark German lager, John is slightly more conversational until Lestrade brings up Sherlock in the context of how dismal his work at the Yard is without that razor-precise, cut-to-every-chase mind that he had grown quite dependent on in their work together; it is the first time Lestrade has reminisced like that since Sherlock’s fall from the roof at Bart’s and John is incensed by it.  Mycroft, and the bastard superintendent Barry Allen, are pulling the strings, and John fumes inside for a good ten minutes in silence, listening.  Accordingly, he is not in the frame of mind to talk about what Sherlock does instead, nowadays, though the DI does not hide his curiosity:  “So he’s meeting a string of clients at Baker Street?”

“Nope.  Not really.”

“He’s -- what.”

“Working on other projects.”

“Projects?  Sherlock.  Psshhh.  What projects.  He’s got the attention span of a fruit fly unless it concerns crime, whatever it is,” Lestrade grunts.

“So, what kept Allen, or whoever, from wanting to reopen more cases?” John asks.   _Exposure?  Looked bad?_

“Don’t know, John."  Lestrade swallows and looks away.

 _Like hell you don’t._ “It’s a fucking waste, Greg, you're complying, too.”

“I know.  I know, and it’s damned frustrating, just have to let it go.  It's my job.”

“Yeah.  It was before, too.  Come on."

“He’s driving you round the twist at home?  You’ve got my sympathies and those of the entire force, believe you me.  Cheers.”

 _Never, you'd never believe me anyway.  Forget it._   “Just.  Find something for him.  This is -- can’t go along with this.”

“I’ve thought about it.  Don’t have a lot of room for mistakes if someone shouts out.”

“You’ll think of something.  Just, do something about it.  Bring him in.” 

***

Clothes from Frederick’s Jermyn Street atelier smell of cedar for a while, John notices some days later, because they are sent home hung on cedar and brass hangers or packed in boxes with white paper that is slightly cedar-scented. 

“Show me tonight,” John says, handing one such paper-wrapped packet to Sherlock, who he reckons has not been given something to put on _for_ someone since childhood. 

That is, he suddenly _hopes_ Sherlock has not been given...ultra-elegant, easily-removed house-clothes.  _Or.  Or elegant pants._   _Or_ _any bloody thing.  Jesus, I’m an idiot._

Sherlock is occupied with keenly examining Frederick’s handiwork, inside and outside, on the tweed jacket that John is already taking up from his hand and proudly trying on to show him.  “Not bad,” he remarks while grinning at himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece at his first non-uniform and wedding-free piece of tailored clothing.  “Not bad at all.  Actually, amazing.”

“Agreed.  But do you like the jacket?” Sherlock mumbles, and smiles at him in the reflection.  John shivers a bit.  “Take it to Passau,” Sherlock tells him.  “Shooting with Rainer and the others.”  He approaches John from behind and slides his arms around his chest.  “You’ll come to the forensics conference, for certain?”

“Planning to, yeah.”

“Salzburg, soldier.”  Sherlock tightens his grip.  “In fact, I haven’t read a paper at a conference since I was at Cambridge.  They’ve been presented by others, occasionally.” 

“Yeah?”  John is not overly surprised to hear this; Sherlock’s behaviour gets sketchy at best when he is placed in front of a group.   _Moral support in Passau.  I’ll be the one needing moral support and a stiff drink._

“Rainer wanted confirmation, too.  If so, he’s bringing several guns.  Transporting weapons of that value he’ll need to arrange for a safe and insurance, law things.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“I wouldn’t go without you,” Sherlock adds.

John’s ears are already glowing.  “Wouldn’t?”  He licks his lips.

“Anywhere.”

“Won’t ever have to if I have anything to say about it.” 

“You do.”  Sherlock kisses John's hair. 

“And I feel sorry for the first person who has anything _else_ to say about it,” adds John, putting up his chin.

 _Since when do you feel sympathy for my brother?_  It is on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, and he bites it.  Or more accurately, he leans down and bites into John’s nape, knowing full well what happens in John’s head when they gaze at a mirror this way.  “I’ll come see you later tonight,” he says.  “Upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“I have some writing to do.  Strategies to consider.”  His eyes hold John’s for several seconds.

_Killing me, love._

Sherlock takes his parcel from Frederick's and smiles one more time before leaving the room to shut himself in his bedroom.

***

It is completely dark when Sherlock slides into John’s narrow bed upstairs, and one of John’s first thoughts is of the cedar, and the faintest trace of lavender in Sherlock’s hair as John turns to put his arms around his friend and pull him on top of him.  Those two scents together will always be associated with Sherlock in his head.  He notices the heavy silk next.  While thick and matte, it is somehow almost skin-like under John’s fingers.  Against his chest (their chests) it feels nothing like (deliberately 'naughty' and cheap) satins or softer cottons, and in his state of distraction it will continue to defy comparison, for now.  He praises himself silently on suggesting the button-less design (by feel, it is something like a fitted peasant shirt) before being diverted again by the length of Sherlock’s neck in front of him -- very easily kissed, as are his collarbones.  Another goal, achieved.  John pauses to recall all the regulations they’re about to violate, and runs his fingers over the soft sleeves _._ “Feels good,” John whispers, “You feel so good.  Can’t see you, though.”

“It’s superb.  Thank you.”

“Welcome.  Kiss me.”

Sherlock’s smile is audible as he hums and nibbles his way up John’s neck.  “Where.”  He bites John’s jaw, rubs his tongue over the tooth marks, and licks his way to his soldier’s mouth, teasing at his tongue and ignoring all sounds of impatience.  “Where, I asked.”

“Just kiss me --” John whispers against Sherlock’s lips as his hands curl into Sherlock’s back. 

“Where is _it_?”

“By my Sig.”  John groans.  “Hmmm, feels -- I’m -- hnn -- ah, yeah.”  Sherlock’s hand is ghosting down John’s shaft.  “You -- are.  Oh, God.  Oh.  Yeah.  Ahhh.  Ah, God.  Good.”

“Started without me, soldier, hardly fair of you,” Sherlock says in John’s ear, his breath hot and rhythmic as he rubs them together in his hand. 

“Oh my God.  Talk to me, love.  How.  How does it feel.”

“Like you love me.”

“Ahh, yeah.”

“Undress me, John.”

“Ah, God -- “ John pulls the shirt off over Sherlock’s head and sits up to kiss him some more before being pushed back onto his pillow.  “Hah,” he gasps.  “ _Je veux te baiser.”_

_The third phrase that closely resembles those in your notebook.  Obviously.  Those texts were for me.  Mmm, John._

“You never said that in Kandahar,” Sherlock murmurs, letting go of their cocks to lean down and lap his tongue over John’s nipple.

“That -- no -- never.  Please, love -- ahh.  Ahhhh, God, yes -- ride -- _Christ_ \--”

***

“Hey.  Sherlock.  Sher -- hey, now.  Wake -- hey, you’re thrashing all over me, here.  Wake _up_.”

“Mmmm!”

“Easy, now.  Easy.  Hey.”

“Mhm.”

“Nightmare.  You're flipping out.”  John kisses his friend's cold, salty forehead and lets him turn over onto his side; Sherlock has pulled John's arm over himself and wants to be held from behind.  John tucks himself carefully against Sherlock's arse and back and runs the flat of his hand over him soothingly.

“I’ve had it before,” Sherlock says quietly, once he has calmed down.

“Hmm.”

“Absurd."

"Yeah?"  John doesn't know how to prompt him to talk, or if it makes sense to try, when he can't do it, himself.

"A man’s body, in the countryside, pulled along in a low, wooden cart.  By horses,” Sherlock tells him, yawning quietly through his nose.

“Yeah.”

“He is on his back, his head's fallen over the back end of the cart and blood is streaming freely from the mouth.”

“Okay....”

“And I have been asked to follow on foot and observe what is presumed to be testimony, drawn on the asphalt in the trail of blood he leaves.”

“Uh.”

“I am told that this is the only testimony that is taken into account.  And I tell them again and again that a dead man cannot give testimony, that the bleeding will stop very shortly and it is entirely pointless.  I am told that no, he is testifying, in fact.  He looks dead, but he isn’t, and all the data are relevant.  So in this arrangement I am walking, staring at the ground, and watching the form of the blood, which is streaming far too quickly and regularly from his mouth to be realistic at all, but it begins to form a cursive in the dust that I cannot read.  The movement of the cart and the gait of the horses are crucial, too, as they interfere.  It is wrecking any continuity or pattern I could hope to see.  I walk back and look at it again but I cannot understand it.  And the worst of all is this:  the man is not considered a victim but a _witness_.  And he has been put in that precarious state, near death, to give a message in bizarre, uncontrolled circumstances, which cannot be retrieved by anyone.  I always wake up furious at the futility in it.”

“Shit.  Yeah.”

“It's ridiculous.”

“Who drives the cart and who asks you to do that?”

“No idea.  In the dream it seems secondary in importance.”

_Not bloody secondary._


	14. To a head

“John,” Sherlock taps at the bathroom door.  “Will is ringing you for the third time within eight minutes, it’s annoying.”

“Take a message, probably about real estate.  Addresses.  Or have him text?”

“Will,” Sherlock says, as he answers the ringing phone in his hand.

“Hey, Sherlock.  Is John available for a minute?”

“No.”

“Right, okay.  I have the name of a very good OB-GYN for his friend.  Yeah?  Got something to write with?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Yes.”

Will dictates the number.  “Kim Lamberly.  Let him know, then.  Thanks.  Sandra says hi.”

When John leaves the bathroom, the contact is written on a scrap on the kitchen table, tucked against John’s breakfast plate.

Sherlock appears to have slipped out.

***

_Will enter your flat in eleven minutes.  SH_

_OK :) Thanks for the warning???  Alex_

Sherlock doesn’t greet Alex as much as approach him, glancing at the floor and bedclothes, then turning a critical eye toward the makeshift bedside table in the form of a wooden chair.  “You need to stand and walk about the flat more.  Your gauzes should be changed again this afternoon.”

“Good morning, Sherlock.  So, I’ll stand, walk to the kitchen and make you a coffee?”  Alex asks, sitting to the side and standing up from his bed gingerly, righting himself with several winces.

“No.” Sherlock stands in front of him and looks at him again, more carefully.  “My arms are half an inch longer than yours though our trouser inseams are similar enough.”

“Are they really?” Alex is about to start laughing, and seems to be bracing himself for the pain of it. 

“I need the clothes of a foppish freelance copywriter.  Lend me something useful.”

“Lovely that you thought of _me_ for your foppish-clothing needs,” Alex says, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s suit jacket.  “You are irony itself.” The artist shakes his head and adds, “Take what you like.  But you might tell me what you’re dressing _down_ for.”

Sherlock cracks a small grin.  “I’m going to a newsroom.  To see a contemptible, chocolate-addicted tabloid journalist.”

“I see.  I really don’t think our inseams should be your main worry.”

“No?”

“What will your officer say if he sees you in my things, Sherlock?”

“He was recently photographed in another man’s shirt, emerging from Kadi Perkins’ parents’ flat.”

“Oh, dear.  Well I’m sure there was a good reason for it.”

“For the shirt?  Yes.  For the photographs?  No.”

“I’m -- sorry.”

Sherlock pauses and then shrugs.  “John is spending time regularly with that friend of yours --“

“Are you two fighting, Sherlock?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“You’re, well, a bit --”

“What.”

“Edgy, or.  Sherlock, please.  I’m only asking on the rather off chance I could help you.”

“Listen.  As a result, a photo-essay about their burgeoning love affair is about to go to press.  Far more colour photographs than they devoted to my brief engagement to you.”

Alex sighs.  “Oh, Lord.”

“In fact, in my left pocket I have a memory stick with a code that attaches itself to computer files containing particular text strings, like ‘John+Watson’, and fatally infects them.  I just have to get to the right computers and open a charming multimedia presentation on them.  If I am edgy, it is because the presentation has an annoying soundtrack.”

“You’d make a hellish stalker.”

 _I’ve learned from the best._   “I’ll need your reading glasses, too.”

“So, go dress, then.”

Sherlock emerges from Alex’s bedroom a few minutes later with eighteen surprising new deductions about his friend, dressed in caramel-coloured corduroy jeans, a light blue Oxford shirt with a half-length placket and a tiny mustard-yellow diamond print, mostly unbuttoned, underneath a well-tailored navy and brown wool window-checked jacket with bronze metal buttons, into which he has stuffed a golden and red florid silk kerchief.  His hair is brushed back, glaringly full of product, and Alex’s elegant tortoiseshell magnifying eyeglasses are holding it off his forehead.  He smells of Alex’s iris water and he is carrying a russet-brown zipped file case under his arm.  He has crammed his feet into a pair of brown loafers.  He is popping the pen drive into his breast pocket behind the kerchief when Alex bursts out laughing nervously.  “That’s -- quite smart as a whole, I’d not put myself together quite like that,” Alex says.  “I hope you manage it, whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

That statement strikes Sherlock as both generous and ignorant, but he nods. “Mmm.  Need a coat.”

“You need my brown scarf, as well.  By the door...yes.  You’re about as foppish as one can legally be, these days.”

“Well, I’ve had _your_ help,” Sherlock smiles.  “I’ll be back later for my clothes, as they say.”

“Is that what they say, then?”

“Ah.  The name of the infamous coffee-shop, Alex?  With the who-goes-on-whom?”

“ _The Pipestripe._   Oh, you shouldn’t.  I saw palm-licking there, don’t.”

Sherlock smirks and winds Alex’s scarf around his own throat into a pretentious cowl.  “You might lend me gloves, then.”

“Sherlock.”

“Joking.  Laters.”

***

Three hours later, Sherlock returns to Alex’s flat in Westminster, changes clothes, and informs his friend:  “There was one fellow at _The Pipe-tripe_ \--“

“ _Pipe -- stripe_.  Ah ha ha -- !”

“At the _Pipe-swipe_ \--“

“Ah ha ha ha-ha!  Ow, please.  No.  Ahhh, my -- can’t laugh, please don’t!  Oh, mercy!”

“-- With a prosthesis in his trousers.  Pathetic.”

“Ha!  Seriously?  Don’t tell me you _checked!_ ”

“Of course not.  I simply observed.  Observing is allowed.”  

“What’s got into you?  Dare I even ask?” 

 “No.” _Codeine makes me ‘slutty’, too._  

“Get the dishes and some water, Sherlock, and we might fit in an hour of painting before the nurse comes by.”

***

“Want to?” John asks, knowing how much his friend enjoys taking him out and pulling his pants off his thighs for him.  Simple things that used to be so tricky emotionally have smoothed out enough that he can focus on feeling good and not push about a bundle of questions first.  He gives that two full seconds of acknowledgement and grins at the sound Sherlock has just made.

They’ve had a nice dinner, the second half of it in bed.  Sherlock had picked at it a bit too long.  He is partly reclined on pillows, looking like a half-stripped monarch, waiting to be further entertained.  His slightly swollen lips and nakedness from the waist down testify to John’s initial enthusiasm.   _The male physiology, blatant intentions._  John is climbing over and kneeling above Sherlock’s lap; he cracks open their bottle and brushes wet circles over Sherlock’s cock, rubbing his thumb gently and lingeringly over its hot, trickling head, and crouches for a moment as though he is about to look up and spring at his friend’s throat.  He might:  to lick it, while he grinds half of that long, slim prick against his prostate. 

In Sherlock’s mind, a man needs little else than what he has loosely wrapped in his arms, right now:  John (delicious) -- with the wet, fertile scent of fresh grass between his legs and wine on his lips, kissing the entire crown of Sherlock’s head, before pulling back and admiring him with sharp, proud, male regard in his eyes. 

It feels way better face to face, to John.  And to have _that_ mouth on his and a fuck that makes stars rise and fall in front of his eyes, open or not, is _gorgeous_.  “I want to feel you everywhere,” John says, his fingertips closing in Sherlock’s hair at the back of his neck.  

Sherlock holds John’s waist and looks down, taking in the impatience and excitement between them.  He lets one hand slip around John’s arse and trails his other fingers to John’s groin, into the rougher hairs around the root of him, and leans forward to kiss the left shoulder, right at the edge of his worst scarring.  John is watching him, waiting to hear a word.  “Then you will,” Sherlock tells him, but he hasn’t stopped running his hands over John’s skin, now on his thighs.   

When John rocks back and takes him in, Sherlock is _present_ in a way he could never describe in words.  He almost tries; John might want to hear what he _is_.  _Means._  But if Sherlock were to explain that the whiteness and silence in his mind seem to burn out everything toxic and distracting and sore, giving him space to breathe, for his heart to really feel (love, like that, where it is not an occasional stab but an almost itchy sensation of the heart being swarmed and swollen by manifold, unidentified feelings), would it make _any_ sense?  _Can its significance really be conveyed in any other way than physical expression (this)?  I love you, I love you, as though you were one of my most natural emotions.  Yes.  Yes, that is it._

He lets it go, now.  John is moving with concentrated, flexing thrusts against Sherlock’s thighs, talking disjointedly, taking something with each push forward, giving his friend a tight, hot slide, grinding at him, catching his nerves a little every time, mumbling, loving and kissing him, sharing breath itself.  The blank whiteness spreads through the core and Sherlock closes his eyes, listening to John, who is slowly breaking words in half, groaning chaotically -- Sherlock wraps his fingers around John’s cock and strokes him, letting him stream and throb in his fist.  John is doubling forward and kissing his lips and smiling madly; they kiss more gently.  “Amazing.  God, I love you.  So much, beautiful.  Do you know?  You’re everything I have.  Now you.  Let me make you feel good.”

 _‘You’re everything I have’.  Six times._ Sherlock finally answers, “No, no.  Before I go to sleep.”

“You’re --“

“I’ll run a bath for us both, and if you’re able, stoke the fire in the meantime.”

“Ah, yeah,” John exhales and rubs at his forehead.  “That.  Was extreme.  Uhm.  You okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Couldn’t stop it.”

“Why should you.  You were brilliant.”

Later, Sherlock attempts to tell John some of his feelings in the bath, loses his point and admits that their temporal nature interferes with objective description; John begins philosophising and suggests a metaphor about the futility of showing someone a photograph of a sunset on a mobile phone, hoping to convey the grandeur of the original event. 

He gets splashed for it.    

Sherlock gets splashed for splashing.

***

                _Dinner’s on, should I wait for you?_

_At the Yard. SH_

_No. SH_

***

Sherlock flies into the living room, a raging mass of nervous energy. At first, John thinks he’ll want to rush back out in a moment; he is like a storm. An element. Something is very wrong, John realises, as soon as Sherlock sets his phone in front of him, on the arm of his chair, where he has been reading a book. His friend's hands are trembling like mad.

He sees a photograph of himself with his arm around Kadi’s waist, helping her walk when she’d got dizzy; it is ambiguous at best.

Sherlock has already started speaking. “Didier Dufort. A colleague of her father’s, works for the commodities trading arm in the same bank, they feed from the same corporate trough. He is a nasty piece of work.  Hedge-trader just before the Crisis, charged, acquitted and sent off to Cannes for his troubles.  Perhaps you’d like to tell your friend that he has someone else, in France, and spare her the gradual discovery. Though that one already has a child of his, who is two and a half years of -- ”

“Not my business. Sure as _hell_ not yours, either. Lay off.”

“Lay -- off? Me? Lay off...?”

“Following her. Don’t.”

“I was _not_ prowling after you, or her. Don’t be insulting.”

“All right, then,” John replies, clearing his throat.

“I spent all of a half hour on her person for Oleg, though I was interested, I had already made my deductions about her and who she is to you.”

“Good. And what did you determine.”

Sherlock ignores that. “The rest came into my hands. This woman, caught up with _my_ partner in a tabloid love-affair.  Featuring the state you were in at her parents' house, your re-emergence in another shirt, after which you paid her two hundred quid, put your arm around her and then rushed off, all in the form of a colourful feature on ‘Dr. Watson’s lady love’, in the works, blocked from publication at _my_ request.” _In a manner of speaking._

“What the bloody hell --” John stands from his chair.

“Not anything I wanted to see: a kind and talented woman used by an opportunistic, arrogant and indifferent bastard who will take the first excuse to leave her alone with that child. Currant juice, spilled on your shirt before a meeting. I know. After all, I have received numerous tips and photographs and I have disregarded all of them, in your favour, for weeks.”

“Shhhhit.”

“And why wouldn’t I?”

“Okay --“

“And the affectionate gestures I can overlook, she’s pregnant -- _sentiment_.”

“Right. Right. Stop. Just.”

“’You intoxicate me and I want to take you to bed’,” Sherlock continues.  “’You are as beautiful as the sun. Burning’.  About me, after all, was it not, yes it was. Now, tell me the one thing I _cannot_ deduce, in the absence of your word on the subject,” Sherlock says, shaking all over.  “Are you leaving?”

“Leaving -- where.”

“Leaving.  You, leaving.”

“Wh - at?”

“You told Lestrade that I _drive you barmy_ at home, and that he needs to find something for me straight away.”

“No. I --“

“Barmy. Due to inactivity.  For the Yard.  And you took it upon yourself to ask him to give me something to do because of said barmy state?  How should I understand it?”

“No. I assumed you’d --”

“Because I’m ‘climbing the walls’ -- ‘John has about enough of you by now’?” Sherlock hisses, imitating Lestrade’s speech.

“Sherl -- no.  No. I -- didn’t say that.”

“Let me fill you in.  I can’t come and ‘help out’ just because my _partner_ fancies I’m in desperate need of _stimulation,_ like _he_ is. Tell me the truth. Have you had enough of it?  Am I driving you _barmy_ here?”

“Uhfff --“ 

“-- Because sadly enough, so very inopportunely, it happens that I _cannot_ work with the police or the government without explicit authorisation, under supervision.  Really and truly.  And nobody will bother _often_ , will they.  The freshest corpse would rot through in the meantime.  Ha.  Sort of the point, John. Too much paperwork for a half-literate, half-awake Met lackey to endure signing and stamping, not to say anything of my brother’s lackeys, who are doubtlessly listening to _every_ God-damned word I say right now, taking notes, as they do, day and night, watching me for any sign of lawless intent.”

“Sherlock --”

“ _Greetings from the bowels of hell, arseholes! Perhaps now for your enjoyment I’ll climb the nearest wall!"_

Now John is breathing through his nose, bull-like.

“John. Why didn’t you tell me to my face.”

John shakes his head. “Hmm.  No.  Greg’s put words in my mouth.  Listen.  I said.  Uhm.  I said, it’s stupid that you don’t get to, that’s he’s part of letting it happen. Calm down.  I think he feels bad, too. Sherlock.  He made jokes about you going wild here at home, but look.  I don’t talk about us, it’s our life and what we do isn’t a joke, least of all to me.  Love, listen to me.  Hmm.  Why would I make jokes about _you_? None of this is the _least_ bit funny, it’s a fucking black mark on London, a shame on England.  Just to mete out so-called justice over that piece of _shit_ of a -- okay. No. Enough. Hmm.”

“Do I drive you mad, and do you intend to leave.” Sherlock has had three tablets of the codeine from Alex to endure this conversation. The metaphorical internal explosion he might normally experience in frustration is manifesting itself as a very real and unpleasant cramp in the gut.

“Leaving _with_ you. Hmmm.” John’s hands curl into fists. “ _J'apprends le français. Je veux m'enfuir avec mon phénix.”_ * John looks away and bites his lips.

Sherlock stares and his mouth drops shut.  His eyes are darting over John.  He can hardly come out of himself enough to say, _“Quel imbécile je suis_. John.  Listen to me.  There’s something I have to -- ”

John turns on his heel and gets out of the room just as the tears hit.

\--------------------

_* French texts:_

_\- I’m learning French. I want to go away with my phoenix._

_\- What an idiot I am._


	15. Keep this

Sherlock’s pulse seems to have been piped to his ears from outside and once his adrenaline recedes and the comedown starts, numbness spreads around whichever muscle group he moves.  Everything aches.  He hasn’t eaten in fourteen hours.  A cup of water hits his stomach like glass shards. He cleans up the kitchen table and stares down at its surface in a daze of shame, nausea and doubt.  He is beside himself for losing control, and for having asked _his_ John, of all men, if he would _leave_.   _Insulting.  Stupid.  Pathetic_.  He briefly (not so very briefly, if one were truthful) considers easing the way down tonight; he has twelve more codeine pills; he could -- might; _over there, in the next room.  One more, one and a half at the most_.  Leaving the flat for a walk to work out the pains shooting down his calves is not an option -- he could expect little more than trouble. Were he seen (sweating, mildly paranoid, with red, glassy eyes), detained and tested, Mycroft might redeem one of his outstanding threats to remove him from John, _invoking Centrum Fenix of Stockholm and calling it ‘a deterrent, lest you dare think you can merely blah blah blah’_ \-- _ni kan dra åt helvete._ *  Sherlock would rather -- _no.  No._   He covers his face and rubs his forehead; he is trying to push back an unstoppable creep of shadow memories, which are bleeding in and reshaping themselves into real names, with their needles and needs; they were supposed to have been deleted, and yet persist and subsist.  Insist on staying put. _A defect._   He thinks briefly (and no more) of the time he’d come to believe there would be no love, nobody for him, ever.  How it had seemed like one of the most glaring certainties of all, in his life to date.  _Jag bryr mig inte om kärlek, det kan inte hjälpas.  Before the ‘when and where’ of John and his loyalty.  Nngh.  Of course, loyal.  ‘It’s Tuesday and he’s in his...usual diligent pursuit of fantasy’ -- pursuing our fantasy, it all fits:  only a fantasy.  Soldier, we can’t go to France -- John has to be told, straight away.  Must be told.  Spare him Mycroft’s snide remark, though it was for him and me both -- for what he and I didn’t know, respectively.  Arsehole can heft a language around in a day or so but would never utter a single sentence as kindly as John can in the scant French he’s already got -- mmmm, John._

Sherlock feels weak, ridiculous and alone, and wishes he could bring John back downstairs.  He imagines, as another stab of pain streaks through his right kneecap, what it would be like to draw a wall of softened nerves and show somehow the moment _regret_ passes through the neural synapses; he is certain it looks different than anything else. 

He chides himself on that a moment later, closes his eyes and resolves to throw away the rest of the pills.  Another day, but very soon.

____________________

_* Swedish texts:_

_\- You can go to hell._

_\- I don’t care about love, it can’t be helped._

***

John is fast asleep; he had gone away in a blur of confusion and fury, skin crawling; he’d paced and cried noiselessly, afraid of the sound of himself losing control, hating his own helplessness, mourning many things, one after another, those nameable and those that he lets stay unnamed.  He’d hardly realised how many he has; he no longer blames Sherlock for hiding his feelings.  He composes a short speech in his head.  It starts with a bit about the meaning of _space_ between two people.  Soon he is sick inside and he does not try to finish it.  He stretches out on his bed, closes his prickling eyes and falls asleep on his side, still in his clothes and completely exhausted, with his face buried in his hands. 

At two in the morning, John inadvertently brings Sherlock out of his bed by humming and pacing slowly between the living room windows; he is looking down at the street in a sweat, his nose congested again.  He has had brutal nightmares and needs water and room to walk around and breathe.  He has made his nervous round of checking locks and bolts and is staring out at the streetlamps, which seem to pulse in his direction; it is a trick of the light and his own shot nerves, he knows, but it makes him feel ill and weak.

Starting in the days he refuses to refer back to, of his first battlefield (the Watsons’ sitting room, after school), when he was growing up empty and angry, assuming the need for a fight from the get-go wherever he went, John had always wanted for a deep, clear-cut bond:  no lies, no games, two people side by side, who give a sort of sanctuary to each other, and understand each other, and love each other to the death, whenever and however it might come (the image of the fallen lovers bound and burnt together on a pyre, from Sherlock’s story, has visited his thoughts tonight -- he’d take that, too).  It has baffled him at times that a man has filled this role so well, but at this point he wants nothing more than to protect what they have. This misunderstanding has hit him in a very soft spot.  _Everything’s going to hell. Why can’t I make him happy.  Stop this going to hell.  It -- can’t._  

Sherlock is standing in the hallway, watching John for some time in the dark before finally stepping on a creaky floorboard to indicate his presence.  He tells him simply to come and warm himself, much as John has sometimes said, to him.  John turns his head and glances back in the direction of Sherlock’s voice.  He shrugs; he doesn’t want to sleep alone now, though he doesn’t want to talk yet, either.  He goes.

Sherlock stands aside in the hallway and lets John by; he can smell the stress on him, and although he would normally respond embarrassingly to it, he hardly dares to breathe it in, now.  He has led his dearest person in the world to _this_ state and _sorry_ hardly touches things.

Beneath the blankets they are tense and quiet; John breathes steadily, mostly through his mouth, and Sherlock stares at the ceiling, his hands folded on his chest.  Neither of them can hope to fall asleep; they are far too aware of each other.  John decides he will not speak first and struggles inside.  Sherlock agonises over his choices of what to say.

“Forgive me, John, for telling you that you might leave,” he begins, suddenly.

John doesn't answer.

“To lose your respect, for any reason, would be intolerable to me,” Sherlock continues.

John doesn't move a muscle.

“In the accumulation of events and signals I couldn’t find an explanation.”

John coughs; his mouth sounds dry.

“Except that I should let you go.”

 _“Couldn’t.”_ John shakes his head against the pillow.

“I couldn’t.  Truly.”

“Uhm.”  John pauses. 

Sherlock is as motionless as he might be when listening at a door or window.

John asks, “Do you feel like we need space?”

“Like I need a bullet to the head,” Sherlock replies quietly, and rubs at his eye sockets with his fingertips.

John closes his mouth and swallows thickly.  Another nightmare swarms in front of his mind’s eye.  “I need that head,” he declares, into the dark of the room.

Sherlock has turned onto his side.  “A pity then that I seem to be losing my reason.  Incrementally.”

“What do you mean.”

“Exactly that.”

“But.  What makes you...feel you’re losing your reason.”

“I can’t think.”

This conversation is quickly unnerving John and he is trying to think of a way through it that won’t make Sherlock close down.  “When does it happen.”

“Constantly.”

“No, objectively, though.”

“Most recently, at nearly any point of decision,” Sherlock admits.

“All right.  You know.  This is -- uhm.  Temporary.”

“That isn’t clear.”

“But we have plans.  And time.”

“Yes.”

“With -- each other.”

“Yes.”   _Yes.  Yes.  Yes._

“We’re okay.”

“Not when I can’t think properly,” Sherlock says, quietly.  “Distracted.”

“Hey, beautiful.  You’re in a bad way.” John reaches over and turns on the small lamp by the bed.

Sherlock is as pale as John had imagined.  He looks at John carefully and opens his mouth.  “I’d like to hold your hand, now that we’re speaking,” he says.

That nearly shreds John’s heart to pieces.  “Go on.”

Sherlock realises that his hands are damp and cold, but to his relief John doesn’t comment.  “I’ve insulted you tonight, and not for the first time,” he says, rubbing John’s fingers gently. 

“Hmm.”

“Your eyes are remarkably dark, now.  John. What I have to say might seem redundant to you, you’ve observed me enough to know this perfectly well, but there’s a certain mechanism to what I do.”

“Yeah?”

“The things I know I should tell you, I think I’ll show you.  When I go to show them to you, I decide that I’ll try to tell you instead.  And it stops me.  And I find myself circling around them, in my head, trying to decide.  Which is absurd.  I end up missing the moment, almost every time.  It’s no wonder at all that my worst nightmares pertain to missing the point when it’s ruined so much, for so long.  In fact.  It’s easy to _tell_ other people about themselves.  Provide deductions about events, places, people, and connect evidence.  Of what is clearly visible.  On the other hand, most people find it easy to talk about _themselves_.  Which means most of what people say is fully or nearly entirely superfluous.  You see.”

“Uhm --“

“Not my main point.  Well.  Recently the circularity in my thoughts has been worse.  Infuriating.  Don’t think I’m not perfectly aware that you deserve much more from me, for as demonstrative and generous as you are.  And kind.  I would be the last to blame you if I couldn’t keep you.”

“Keep me?”

“Keep this.”

"We're keeping this."

Sherlock nods.

“Just.”  John squeezes his eyes shut.  They itch.  “Talk to me no matter how it sounds to you, because I can’t bloody well guess what’s going on.  I could do a hell of a lot better at it, myself.”

“Okay.”

“Sherlock.  Seriously.  Why did this happen to us.”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, I should’ve said something.  About her, what we were doing.  And I didn’t realise that putting in a word at the Yard would -- not -- really do anything.  For -- things.  Damn it, not making sense.  I thought it might help something.”

“I was a fool for not seeing what you’ve been trying to do, John.”  _Diligently._

“Sorted,” John says, quietly and leans forward to touch Sherlock’s lips with his knuckles so softly that it tickles and makes Sherlock grimace and then smile, very suddenly, in spite of the tension in his cheeks.  “I think I managed to hurt you, too,” John tells him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.

John is struck by his frankness.  _I really did.  Oh, God._   He shakes his head to himself and chews at the inside of his cheek.  “I’m so sorry, beautiful phoenix, wanted to make you happy, ultimately, that was all -- yeah?” John reaches out to smooth several damp, wavy locks of hair off Sherlock’s brow.  “Still want to.”

“Thank you.”  The mention of _phoenix_ makes something in Sherlock’s chest seem to leap.   _Tell him._  “Your efforts,” Sherlock says carefully, “impressed me very much.  I’m referring to your French lessons again.”

“Wanted to hit the ground running,” John remarks.  “Buying bread.  Or -- a tomato, _où puis-je acheter_ \-- whatever, a hammer.”

“I missed the fact.  Of the French lessons.  But --”

“Used it on you a couple times, though.”

“Anyone can memorise a phrase or two from the Internet to use in bed.”

“Hm.”

“It was -- erotic.  Thank you.  Perhaps you’ll carry on.  However, I didn’t imagine that you were studying it, because --“

“Because of the pictures of Kadi?”

“No, no.”  _Tell him the truth._   “Mmm -- my recent deductions had a serious bias.”

“Bias.”

“My brother --“

John growls to himself.

“Mycroft has informed me that I will not necessarily be permitted to leave England to live elsewhere.”

 _Fucking kidding me._ John exhales in disbelief.  “Wh - at?  Wh - y not?”

“I don’t know what else to say at this stage.”

“Heh.  Your brother is manipulating _everything,_ is what you want to say.  God _damn_ it.”

“He’s not the only decision-maker.  The security committee is touchy after the October fiasco in Vienna.” Sherlock waves and lets his hand fall to his side.  “Mycroft has presented me with a conundrum, in the form of a precedent, as he calls it.  In any event, John, in these last few days I have been re-thinking Lagrasse.”

“But what was the point of this precedent or --?”

“It isn't clear to me.”

“Meaning you don’t know what it is?”

“Of course I know what it is, one fact does not preclude the other, obviously.”

“Right...”

“Well.  Most importantly, it has forced me to reconsider.”

“Yeah.”  _Generally when a bloke catches a glimpse of his life going to shit in one minute, it makes an impression._   “Well, whatever happens, it also doesn’t depend on you, alone,” John replies, his breath heavy as he shifts his body closer.  “I’ll help you.  Jesus.  _Jesus_.  Look.  Whatever you decide, just.  Talk.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately, but in a moment he says, “I’ve told you what is likely to come of that.”  He draws several loopy circles in the air and rolls his eyes to himself.

“No, you’ll be all right.”  _Have to be.  Oh my God, and I didn’t know.  That's your father's house, damn it, it's yours._

Sherlock brushes his fingers against John's temple.  “ _Mon petit loup, j'ai besoin de toi.”_

“I need you too, so much.”

“You understood?”

“Sure as hell trying to.”

Sherlock's eyes have dropped to John’s lips.  “Brilliant that you want to.”  Sherlock takes John’s cheek in his hand and leans close to him, slowly enough that John can still pull back.  He doesn’t.  Sherlock sucks at John’s lower lip lightly (John had shown him that, in Norfolk).  He moves to break away from the kiss and let him go but John chases his lips back with the tip of his tongue. 

They both feel raw inside and even these few kisses hurt, somehow.  But they will be able to sleep, a little; Sherlock holds John tightly from behind and kisses his nape, once, and John holds his long, trembling hand to his heart for the rest of the night.

__________________

_*  French texts:_

_\- Where can I buy a ..._

_\- My little wolf, I need you._


	16. Getting there

A successful, 62-year-old German micro-brewer and hunter has left the Continent at Cherbourg in his swift, fourteen-metre recreational yacht; he’s got a new radar reflector -- ungainly but crucial when large commercial vessels dot the Channel right and left; it is an exciting voyage, one he hasn’t made in years, but he will be grateful to reach Brighton; he catches a current and he knows he’ll get there ahead of schedule. 

When greeted late in the evening by a portside customs officer he fishes his well-worn passport from his shirt pocket; he has a plastic _Kaufland_ carry bag in his hand with several pairs of jeans in it; he is waved past with a smile.  He chooses a taxi driven by an Indian man nearly his own age; they chat about football.  His contact, a Polish civil engineer and programmer, is waiting for him on a bench by _The Evening Star_ pub, holding a folded tabloid newspaper under his arm -- his only signal.  They have never met but they greet each other heartily in the first of several little performances for the CCTV cameras in the area.  They sample house-brewed craft beers and compare family tales from the Second World War for more than an hour.  Announcing that he needs to leave for his hotel, the German gives the Pole the _Kaufland_ bag he has at his feet.  “Jeans for you, your little girl and your wife.  Give them my love.” 

The Pole, whose name is Roman Wilk, goes to the pub toilet to change into his new trousers and finds a pistol wrapped inside of them, according to plan; he holds it through squares of toilet paper and examines it quickly, noting that it has an unusually long silencer.  He is no weapons expert, and hasn’t had a gun in his hand since his two terrifying months in Iraq, overseeing reconstruction of road infrastructure near Basra; his international (European) team had found themselves under constant threat of kidnapping and execution; his balding head is close-shaved, but every hair bristles to attention as he checks the appearance of the safety, wraps it gingerly in his worn cargo chinos and stuffs it back in the carrier bag.  He will take it to Vilnius via two ferries and a coach in a matter of days; the signal he’s expected is long overdue.  In a moment, his bowels remind him just how much he isn’t ready to go back to Lithuania. 

In about half an hour, when he is waiting at the rail station for his return to London, a boy of indeterminate age, perhaps ten, with sticky lips and dirty clothes, approaches:  “Ye spare fif’y pee, sir?”

Roman Wilk nods his head to himself and turns away to count the change he’s pulled from his pocket.  He still doesn’t know the coin sizes and denominations well.  “You have this.  It is very late.”

The boy grasps the coins he receives excitedly.  “Ye can’t use th’ gun, Miss’r Filk,” he whispers, and then backs away.

“ _Kurwa_ \--” Roman whispers to himself.  The child has already woven his way among a scattered group of Chinese tourists and disappeared, in the direction of the German, hidden from view and wearing a tacky baseball hat, who gives him a large packet of _Haribo_ gummy-fruits, as promised.  Roman pretends to look at his watch; he has decided to take a small commuter coach to Victoria Station, instead.

***

                _Hey, beautiful :) Didn’t want to wake you._

_OK.  Lunch 13:00.  SH_

_Yes!  18 patients.  Love you._

***

“Doctor Watson, this gentleman claims to have a delivery.”

“He does.  Thank you.  Come in,” John says, turning to herd Sherlock in through the door to his office.

Sherlock hardly waits for the click of the remote lock shutting behind him.  “It’s cooled,” he says, as if he has been waiting impatiently to say exactly that.  He is hesitant in his movements toward John.  For now, he limits himself to putting a hand out and running it down John’s arm.  “Light foods for disrupted digestion due to sleep deprivation, obviously.”

“You’re wonderful.”

“Well.  I won’t supervise.”

“Stay a little.”

They are still standing in front of each other.  John smiles as he glances around them.  “I was thinking, earlier, how much, yeah.  Still thinking about things.”

“Mmhmm.”  Sherlock steps forward slightly.  “Sandwiches.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Won’t have a chance to eat, later, true.”

“I love you,” Sherlock says, abruptly.

“I love you, too.  You okay?”

“Well.  I’ve been next door and scheduled an endoscopy, I want you to be aware.  Your colleague Preston wants a biopsy of my stomach lining,” Sherlock says, waving his hand.  “True to his keenness for collecting.  Beetles, I suspect, going by the way he drives at his notepad with an unbent paperclip, he is well-accustomed to --”

“You didn’t say a word about stomach pain, love.  What’s happening.  When did this start?”

“It comes and goes, far worse after meals, milk intensifies the pain.  Unimportant.”

“Could be a bacterial infection or an ulcer, the beginnings of one.  Give me all the results straight away, from the breath test for _H. pylori_ , blood tests, and which antibiotic he wants to prescribe, everything.  Jesus.  One of the more popular antibiotics brings on dizziness in patients who are predisposed to migraine and you’d need something different, particularly if you’d be taking it for a month or so.  But no need to biopsy straight away, damn it.”

“Calmly.”

John’s eyes widen.  “How calm should I be!”

“Very.” 

John shakes his head.  _I need to get you the hell out of London, take care of you._ He puts his arms around Sherlock and pets his neck.  “Just.  Let me know.  I love you so much.”

"Okay."

“Thinking about you a lot, today.”

“Mmm.”

“Uhm.  What you said about --”

There is a timid knock on the door.

“Shh -- sorry, I should --“ John mumbles, squeezing Sherlock’s arm as he lets go and turns away, stepping over to the door, which he opens by pressing a newish electronic switch that he doesn’t seem able to get used to. 

“Sorry.  Doctor, one more at four forty-five.”  The receptionist says.  “Sorry.  Excuse me.”

“Call the next patient in ten, I’ve got to eat something,” he whispers, and shuts the door again with a loud sigh.  “Yeah.”

“What I said about what?” Sherlock asks.

“Hmmm?  Yeah.  France.”  John has opened up the bag of food.  He pulls out a Thermos flask and Sherlock’s eyes follow his hands over it as he twists it open and sets it in front of him on a stack of scratch paper.  “Tomato and brown rice.  Herbs?  Wow.”  He pulls up a chair more enthusiastically.  “It’s pissing me off, you know, this -- mmmm.  This is _excellent_.  Uhm.  That’s your family’s.  It’s _your dad’s_ place.  So, if there’s any way, _you_ should be able to go there if _you_ decide you want to, mmmm.  And.  To _hell_ with what Mycroft thinks he has to say about it.”  John gestures aggressively with his spoon; Sherlock thinks he looks capable of dipping an eye from its socket, at the moment.

“I won’t go without you.  That’s the point,” Sherlock replies, putting his hands behind his back.

“Right, and I’m not planning to send you off.”  John stops chewing rice for a moment and considers how that sounds.  He’s jumpy after their argument and has to remind himself to cut it out.  “It’ll be complicated, I knew that, but we’ll do it.  Will’s just said he thinks mid-July is a reasonable date to open our doors.  We get it rolling and we’ll start finding a way to get you there, whatever the hell it takes.”

_No, soldier._

“Is there any more of this at home?” John asks.

“A quart,” Sherlock answers, smiling down at John, who is now eating, like the majority of busy doctors, with all the grace of a steam-shovel.

***

“There’s a case in Manchester.  A disappearance, the police say a runaway, the mother wants a second opinion.  We’ll leave on Friday morning.” Sherlock is staring out the living room window, his eyes darting over the cars and pedestrians below.  John shoves his hands into his pockets and approaches him from behind.

“No, love.  You know.  I’m scheduled eight to five and one of us is out this week, can’t trade out.”

“I’ll need you.”

“Yeah.”  John glances up at Sherlock’s neck and clears his throat.  “How long?  Will you be there?”

“No way to determine that now.”

John wraps an arm around his friend’s waist.

“What is it.”

“Nah.”

“What.”

“I have this -- thing,” John mumbles. 

“My brother has seen to that.  Your street accident and your separation anxiety clearly concur.”

“No, nah.”  John reddens and looks away, as if he were reading something on a nearby surface.  _Bloody humiliating.  Fuck’s sake, control it_.

“They further concur with my own,” Sherlock admits; he’s been wanting to say that for more than two months and is startled by his own voice for a moment.

John shakes his head.  “Yeah.  I’ll -- you’ll call if I should come up or not.”

“From Euston Station, a quarter past six in the morning, first departure.”

“How many hours? Two and a half, three?”

“Two hours and ten minutes.”

“’Kay.”  John is leaning in close, eyes a bit darker in the centres than before.

Sherlock takes his chance.  “Tonight, I’ll want to.”

“Or --”  John’s voice trails off, giving way to a warm invitation that crosses his entire face.

“Yes.”

John takes Sherlock’s hand and kisses his knuckles lingeringly.  “Tonight, too.”  They look at each other in a rather petitioning way, though it is difficult to know exactly where each man’s wariness (if that is what is happening) has come from.  John has decided to try to take things as they come and shifts down a bit from grabbing Sherlock by both arms and pushing him toward the sofa and down onto his back, as much as he wants to.

Sherlock examines him and finally blinks and glances away, as though his eyes were tired.  They’ve hardly touched each other lately and John’s body is tense for it, though his heart needs something completely different.  As so many times before, he finds himself split in half as he guides his dearest friend across the room to the sofa and asks him to sit down close to him.  He sees after a few seconds what’s wrong, if one can claim that something _is_.  Something is certainly _different_ between them right now.   _Too much thinking and wondering about shit for no reason.  To hell with that._  

“I haven’t meant to, uhm.  Stay away.  Just happened that way,"  John explains, because he feels like he ought to.  He holds out his hand again, which Sherlock takes.  “Staying away from you -- “ he goes to say but stops, because he has his phoenix so close, evidently waiting (as he tends to when he is not completely confident, for whatever reason; John rarely knows why).

Sherlock is examining John's fingers, finally choosing one and bringing it to his mouth, while watching John’s face.  He kisses it, and to John’s surprise, seems about to set his hand back on his knee, when he grips it tightly, instead.  Sherlock leans very close to John and says, "I’m about to tongue you.  And suck you to the very borders of forgetfulness -- wreck you,” he growls, taking John’s shirt collar in his hand.  “Fuck you to oblivion, then eat you and start again, shred you to bits with my teeth, lick you all over, make you struggle around my fingers until you plead for me to put you out of your misery, Captain _Watson_ , shockingly insatiable, naughty officer, I’d never act like this on my own -- that is -- unless -- you asked me -- nicely.  No touching.” 

“Oh, fuck, yeah.” John gasps, biting his lips in earnest.

Sherlock puts his lips to John’s ear.  “It's fantasy.  Even my brother won’t listen in, now, for sure.”

“Sod them.  Just fantasy,” John pants, “but you could carry on, for me.”

“Reality with you is far better,” Sherlock whispers.

“Reality is amazing.  Hey, now, don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.  Merely aroused.” Sherlock laughs a bit, a moist, hot burst that tears through John. 

“Really?” John asks, gently, though he is about to pull open his trousers. 

“Very.  Now listen.  We’ve elected to talk when we have something to say.  Therefore.  Respond to this as though it were erotic to you, my brother’s minions will not listen to it anymore, if they are listening in, now.  It’s maddening.”  John tenses and tries to turn it into a shiver and smile.  He is not an actor, and particularly not _now_.  “Respond accordingly, I’ll try to make it easier for you.  John.  I didn’t see the sense of the mission in Vilnius at first.  It’s wasteful and absurd.  But I’m convinced there’s something more.  Concerning the behaviour of two people, there.”  Sherlock puts out his tongue and touches it to John’s earlobe, breathing over it lightly.  John sighs loudly before he can stop it.  “Get re-accustomed to functioning without electronic means, go offline whenever you can.  Like in those spy books of yours.  Eating scraps of code on paper, that lot.” Sherlock shifts his position on the sofa and tips his head to accept a kiss from John, the warmest he has had in days. 

They are hungry.  Their fingers dig into each other’s arms and backs as they lick and press kisses over each other's mouths.  And necks.

“Sher -- touch me.”  John takes Sherlock’s hand, urging it into his pants.  He grasps at Sherlock’s zipper and shoves his trousers down, to find him just as hard.  He hums and asks without words, sucking in Sherlock’s lip, listening to a half-stifled word of assent.  John turns round at the hip, leaning down over Sherlock’s lap to put the first wet kisses against the tip of his cock, taking in a bit of the stickiness welling up there, all for him, as Sherlock’s thigh trembles under his hand; John is opening his lips a little and letting Sherlock push up through them, against his tongue. 

“J - ohn,” Sherlock says.  “Stop.  St -- you, on me.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, love.”  John sits up and tries to catch his breath.

“It’s -- in the skull,” Sherlock tells him.

“Skull --” John turns his head away and starts to giggle as he stands up with an erection poking from his pants.  “In the -- skull?” he snorts, adjusting himself and kicking off his jeans.

“It’s central.”

“Oh, God -- ha!  Heh heh --” 

“It’s seen worse," Sherlock declares.  "What.”

Even as John falls asleep later that night, with Sherlock draped over him, he will snicker against the pillow, _lube in the skull._   It is a pleasant distraction; he could use more of them.  He is trying to fathom why Sherlock wants him to practice going offline and what this trip to Vilnius has in store for them both.  For now, though, he is thinking more about the departure of his phoenix to Manchester,the same city that had stolen away his fiancée, many years before.   _To be fair, not the city, but a smarmy dickhead_.   Sherlock has just yawned quietly against his back, and rubbed his neck with his mouth and nose.  John reaches back and strokes his thigh, offering his lips for a few more kisses. 


	17. Regarding suitability

John has just come home from work and has picked up a phone call from Alex;  Sherlock is in Manchester as of that morning but has left his phone on the living room table at Baker Street, much to John’s dismay (the disturbing lack of response to his texts throughout the day -- explained).  It occurs to John that it might be part of the detective’s sudden desire to _go analogue_.  _He’s chosen a bloody inconvenient moment to try that out_ , John decides as he greets the artist in a voice that speaks of controlled impatience. 

“Oh, hello, John.  I hope I haven’t disturbed you, perhaps I could speak to Sherlock if he’s available?”

“He’s -- in Manchester.  Not sure when he’ll be back, maybe Sunday?”

“I see...he forgot his phone, then?”

“N -- y -- eah.  Anything I should tell him?”

“Nothing at all, no bother, John.  And how are things?”

“Fine.  Good,” John barks.

“Well.  I won’t disturb you.  Good evening, then.”

Alex has a third-degree case of cabin fever after three weeks of being cooped up in his flat and is itching to go out, at last.  He had planned to invite Sherlock to accompany him for a chat. Anywhere would do by now, he feels.  

In the morning, he chalks up his slight dizziness to the giddy feeling of making an escape, as he slowly leaves his building to climb into a cab he's ordered (lap belt only, for now; the driver has closed the door, behind him).  His destination is the _Glen Burns_ gentlemen’s club; he will be making his first appearance there since his early twenties.  Sherlock had brought the place to his mind, insisting he should see the collection of prints that ‘his’ Jens had been researching, there.  As well, he had bragged to Alex about hanging his erotic drawing of the Great-War-era officers on the staircase, in order to lure John down to look at it (Alex had praised his artful seduction skills just before Sherlock could shrug and claim it had all been a practical joke).

Alex spends a delightful half hour in the so-named International room downstairs reading the newest German-language periodicals from Switzerland and Austria and decides to make his way up to the collection in the library; he climbs the stairs gradually, thinking vaguely of sex (for why else do heart patients count how many stairs they can climb?) and pausing frequently to examine the artwork on the walls.  He already feels far stronger than he had before his surgery, and he is in good spirits over that fact. 

As he enters the lovely, wood-panelled library at last, he finds himself alone, save one man perhaps ten years his elder with thinning ginger hair and grey eyes that seem ready to pierce (without clear cause) straight through his heart; he is seated in an attractive, carved chair in the middle of the room, near a large, hand-painted globe.   _The entire room suits him_ , Alex thinks, and he has the immediate impression that the gentleman has been waiting for _him_ to arrive, though on second thought, he cannot imagine how that could possibly be the case.  Nevertheless, he is being keenly observed; he is prepared to fend off advances verbally if need be; however, to his relief, he sees no signs of growing interest in his physical person.  He allows himself the liberty of observing, back.  The man is dressed in an exquisite, three-piece estate tweed, a tone cooler in colour than his hair; he has a hand-stitched, wood-handled umbrella, the curve of which is cupped in his hand; his fingers curl and uncurl around it nearly to the rhythm of Alex’s heartbeat, the clicking of which he is all too aware of, still. 

“Sir,” Alex finally says and bows toward the older man, dissolving some of the growing tension in the room before moving on to approach a display case with satirical maps of Europe and Northern Africa inside.

“On the mend, Mr. Nussbaum.  The delay was a dangerous one.  Curious, you are not a risk-taker yourself.  You _admire_ risk-takers from afar.  Adrenaline by proxy,” Mycroft says, as Alex stiffens but turns back round to look at Mycroft with affected calm.  “Prudent, perhaps, given your family history.”

“Prudent, indeed,” Alex replies, raising an eyebrow and studying his interlocutor again with a light smile on his lips.  There is something in the cadence of the man’s voice that draws him in and he cannot put his finger on it.  “Your concern, sir, is --”

Mycroft studies his own hands.  “ _You are well.  That is well_.”

Alex’s eyes leap to Mycroft’s at what could only be a reference to his and Sherlock’s Latin texts, when his friend signs off with an old-school abbreviation to that very effect.  He forces himself to hold eye contact.  “I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Sherlock Holmes’ elder brother, though I presume much in saying so, sir.”

“That is so.”

“That I have presumed much, that is,” Alex has suddenly flashed one of his more charming smiles.  “Allow me to introduce myself properly.  Alexander George Adalbert Nussbaum.” Alex reads well that Mycroft will not move to shake his hand and does not extend his own, bowing his head again, instead.

“Mycroft Holmes.” The two additional, beetle-eyed seconds Mycroft gives the artist end in his mind with a brief tribute to a grand house which will have no heir in London.  Finally, he remarks, “You don’t frequent the _Glen Burns_.”

“It was my grandfather’s club, in fact,” Alex replies.  “Sir Wilhelm Von Herner - Nussbaum.”

“Distinguished psychoanalyst.  In some circles.  The apple does not fall far from the tree.”

“Perhaps you have mistaken me for my brother, the late neuropsychiatrist, Doctor David Reginald Nussbaum.  I am a draughtsman, sir.”

“Hardly.”

Alex blinks.  “Clarify, please.”

“You’ve endured my brother.”

Alex wonders at the backhanded praise in that remark.  “I find that one need not _endure_ your brother,” Alex says, firmly. 

“On the contrary.  I need endure him.  Continually.  Now tell me -- what is the precise nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes, at present?”

“As you are doubtlessly aware, we’ve been acquainted for some months, now.  Frankly, I have a high regard for him,” Alex says, allowing his lips to curl up at the corners.  

“That much is plain.  And you would be inclined to be of help to him.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Where _does_ he find you people,” Mycroft sighs, showily.

“You have included me among which people?  If I may ask?” Alex takes a step forward.

“It hardly matters.  Mr. Nussbaum, you’re acquainted with Doctor Watson?”

Alex goes wobbly inside.  He is getting a very bad feeling about the direction of this bizarre exchange.  “Yes, inasmuch as one can be, having had limited opportunities to speak to Doctor Watson at length.”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t believe it is, sir.”

“That is why it is interesting.”

“I should be grateful to understand you.  You asked if I am inclined to help.  What would you have me do?”

“The right thing, you’re an honest man.  Do you consider Doctor John Watson suitable for Sherlock Holmes?”

Alex’s mind goes blank, now.  To him, John’s and Sherlock’s relationship is a paragon of  love between experienced men of strong characters, who don’t compete but complement each other startlingly well, given their many differences; this is something he dreams of finding (perhaps in Jens -- time will tell; they’ve never as much as kissed).  He tries to think clearly.  The ‘suitability’ of John should be _plain_ to anyone who knows Sherlock at all, particularly to this cynical and powerful relative, who seems to be asking in order to start an intrigue for his own purposes.  He says simply, “I am not capable of assessing Doctor Watson in such a manner, particularly in the light of my limited insight.”

Mycroft states, “I have reasons to believe that the character of my brother’s relationship to the Doctor will soon be altered.  Given the nature of Sherlock’s work, and my work with him, it would be prudent to be on top of events which strike you as unusual.   Because of _your_ unique position, you may be able to pre-empt trouble by keeping me informed.”

 _Oh, Lord, no._   “I fail to understand how I may inform _you_ , sir, given -- your unique perspective.”

By virtue of Sherlock’s restrained behaviours and occasional references to his brother, Alex had come to imagine Mycroft as a sort of _Godfather_ figure (in Vienna, John had described him as a megalomaniac, he recalls), one capable of a particular sort of collateral damage.  

“Ah, I have a minor position in the British government, Mr. Nussbaum, my abilities may have been misrepresented to you.  I have in mind small indications of potential difficulties or change, nothing beyond what friends chat about over tea or the drawing board.  This isn’t playing at James Bond.  Sorry to disappoint.”

 _Certainly not._   “Mr. Holmes, I would hardly feel justified in --”

“It could be of value and of importance.”

Alex sighs.  “Even so, I’m afraid I _cannot_ be of any assistance when I am _quite_ ignorant.”

“Very well, if that is your preferred pose.”  Mycroft moves to stand from the chair.

"Pose, sir?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes as if to indicate his weariness.  "I shall be retiring to my club.”

“Ah, this is not your regular club, then?” Alex asks, attempting to sound more disappointed than relieved.  He is regaining his composure quickly, however.

“No, I rarely visit any others since I founded my own, some years ago.”  Mycroft leans against his umbrella, and stares pointedly into Alex's eyes, again.

“You’ve your own club, sir?  What is the name?  Perhaps I’ve been?”

“ _The_ _Diogenes_.  You’ve doubtlessly never heard of it.”

“ _Diogenes._   I see.  Named for -- which of them?  No, no, let me.  Mmm.  For the philologist?  Perhaps.  The explorer, the bishop?  No.  The Byzantine?  No.  Diogenes of Sinope, it is.  The cynic.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmurs.

Alex’s eyes follow Mycroft's manicured fingers as he straightens his impeccably tailored jacket lapel.  He looks up daringly through his lashes.  “Only a name.  And yet -- philologist, explorer, bishop, Byzantine, and cynic -- all in one.  Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows seem unable to settle.  “Good day, Mr. Nussbaum.  Do reconsider.”

Alex breaks into the most glowing smile he can force of himself.  “Good day, sir.”

Mycroft leaves the library for a secret staircase; he is not a man to hope -- _naturally, not_.  Though he has expectations, to the effect that Alex will tell Sherlock about this meeting.  _Fallout shall occur._   Nussbaum’s breeding alone sets him aeons apart from _the soldier fellow_ , the elder Holmes brother cogitates, as he steps into the car waiting outside.  His brother is far more foolish in love than he’d initially estimated; Mycroft is satisfied with the steps he has taken, thus far:   _Sherlock remains blind and deaf to the evidence that the world would scream in his direction.  Unreliable, irrational._

The artist, lost in thought, wanders over to the painted globe in the middle of the library and runs his fingers gently over its mahogany framing.  His estimation of Sherlock has changed appreciably in those few minutes.


	18. Five

John waits for a signal from Sherlock but nothing comes; by mid-afternoon he understands that he isn’t sure what sort of signal he’s expecting.  _A telegram by -- pigeon?_   _He said six-fifteen in the morning._   He has spent most of the day on personal errands and tidying the flat.  He reviews some French phrases repeating them aloud as he scrubs out the bathroom sink, with renewed determination that _et merde_ , they’re _going_.  He rings Marv for the hell of it, and gets an earful about a bizarre malpractice suit at another clinic involving a Botox mishap -- along with an unsolicited update on the current state of the dermatologist’s adoration of Molly Hooper.  By evening John has packed a small bag, deciding he’ll make an adventure of Sunday.  

He climbs on the six-fifteen out of Euston Station with yawning commuters and hung-over students, knowing only the name of the hotel where Sherlock is staying. 

The “going analogue” (being out of touch) has made John anxious on the one hand, but it has also worked on his thoughts in appealing ways.  He stares out the window of the compartment at the urban and suburban landscapes; the same mist that had providentially enshrouded the nasty snack bars near the station softens the view; John soon closes his eyes and rejoins another scene, playing out in -- _Sheffield, this time_.  He has often wished to be able to control and beautify what he sees at night, too (more of his phoenix in his lap, no gore and noise).  _Who wouldn’t_ , he thinks, letting several images roll slowly through his head.  _How will I find you, this morning?_ He revisits a fantasy he has _\-- on a train, the rhythm of the wheels clacking like an iron bed, fuck him in a small bunk, nobody would hear a thing, not a thing, his hot arse against my thighs, just us, chain the door shut._   He drifts off along the way, and when he opens his eyes again, it is in response to the braking of the train as it pulls into Manchester Piccadilly.  He grabs his bag and stands to stretch his back, refreshed and a bit randy as well;  he steps out into the noisy glassed-in arrivals hall.  It is industrial in appearance but nothing like the soulless bunker he’d left behind at Euston; he smiles to himself at the madness of being in a city for no other reason than to find his friend and kiss him good morning -- and possibly help out on a case.   _In that order, thank you very much_.  He is about to pull out his phone and look up the address but changes his mind ( _analogue!_ ) and walks up to a ticket desk to get an actual, paper map, noting that the stack of them has a bit of dust accumulating on top.  As he opens it and looks down at it in his hands, he is suddenly aware -- in that crowded place -- of one thing:  the scent of lavender.  He turns abruptly and almost throws an arm around an elderly lady in a dark green woolen dress coat; he can hardly get the word “sorry” out of his mouth before she gives him a withering look and a broader berth; she continues looking up at another departures board nervously, a few feet further away.  He shakes his head at himself and goes back to his map, tracing out a short cab route with his finger.

“I’d expected you yesterday morning,” comes the purr of Sherlock’s voice from his left side.  John tenses and looks round to see his friend looking quite pleased with himself, if not a bit wild-haired, and red-eyed.

John can feel that he is already smiling like a lunatic.  “Well, I’m here, now.”

 _Yes, so it would appear to us both.  A good sign._  “Good morning, soldier.”

“Good morning, beautiful.”

“We’ll get a cab,” Sherlock says.  _Obviously._

They walk out of the station together to a taxi stand, where Sherlock gives several cars a glance and chooses one in accordance with his unspoken deductions; the cabbie takes the address and Sherlock settles in with John, letting their thighs brush; anticipation is blooming in his chest (he knows John will be very warm in his arms) and his blood seems to be swarming in his ears as they endure more than twenty minutes of commute traffic.  _Of course you came, of course you would._   The sound of his hotel room door clicking shut is like a starting gun.  Sherlock has John wrapped in his arms so quickly that John snickers against his shoulder, “missed me, did you?”

Sherlock leans down and kisses John’s face in a few places, grasping at the back of his head with his long fingers.

“Heh,” John gasps, breaking away to breathe, “Take off that coat.  Jacket.  Sorry, need to -- wash my bloody hands.”

“Go on, doctor.”

John darts into the bathroom (which has a rattling overhead fan) to scrub the British Railways from his skin and returns quickly to see Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the bed, in his trousers, with bare feet, and the shirt Frederick had recently sewn for him.

“Oh, that’s -- wow.”

“It’s the least annoying shirt I’ve got.  The others made a noise.”

“You look fantastic.” John crawls over and runs the back of his hand over the silk.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says with a grunt as John pulls him down next to him on the bed.

“Thinking about you on the train, you on me,” John says, looking at Sherlock from very close.  He has just put his palm over some of the wilder hair on Sherlock’s forehead, letting his friend lean into it.

“Nn -- not today.”

“All right.  Just saying.”

“Mmm, John.”

“Let me pet you a little.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Solved it already?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Right.  You wouldn’t be this quiet.  So I should turn round and go back to London.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t.” John holds Sherlock’s head and rubs his nose in his friend’s neck to tickle him before biting him a little.  “Keep this on.  You smell good.”

“Nothing like you do.”

“I almost grabbed a lady at the station.  Lavender perfume.”

“I saw,” Sherlock snickers.  “She walked past me.  The scent even set off a scenario in my mind, then you actually turned on her --“ he rubs his lips as he laughs.  “If she’d pounded you with her handbag, I -- had your back.”  Sherlock gets bitten in the shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“I missed you in the night.”

“I know, I had a -- sort of long night.  Both of them.”

“There was something I thought of -- I’ll show you.”  Sherlock puts his fingers over John’s buttons and John nods.  When his shirt is falling open on his chest, Sherlock runs his thumb against a few dark blonde hairs near John’s nipple, giving them a small kiss that John feels everywhere else; his nerves are tight.  “This, these.  When you’re not there, and I remember something and want to see it, it’s.  Intolerable.  Do you understand?  Details, when you try to pull them up and you need to have them there.”

John smiles.  “All the time.”  By way of illustration, he touches Sherlock’s lips softly with his thumb and goes back to petting his hair.  “Love, I’m starving.”

“That was your stomach and not the ventilator in the toilet, then.”

“Your fingers would do,” John says, taking up Sherlock’s hand and kissing one.

“Buffet’s open another thirty-five -- mmmm, John.”

“We’re coming back to this.”

"Mmhmm."

"You'll tell me everything over breakfast.  Details, everything."

***

“A sergeant.  Health issues, heart trouble.  Unimportant.  Willing to talk, always had her doubts.  This case is fascinating.  So many errors and oversights.  Mmm.”  Sherlock takes a long sip of steaming coffee.  “I read about it but it didn’t make an impression.  Missing twenty-year-old, Alexander.  Sasha, to friends and family.  Good home, about to start college as the first in his family, girlfriend named Julia.  Goes to a pub with four friends, two women and two men.  After the group gets in a noisy argument on the street, Sasha leaves on foot to walk two and a half miles home.  Believed to have run off to Europe the next morning.”  Sherlock waves and shakes his head.  “One of the men, Geoff, close friend, home between three or four in the morning, first.  Someone drove him there in his car, and then took the others home.  They were all drinking heavily that night, so nobody admits to being the driver, obviously.  Sasha was on foot in the meantime, completely intoxicated -- ”

“Separate from the others.  So Geoff --“

Sherlock has started nibbling at a sandwich.  “No, no.  Listen.  They had time to meet up with him, on the way there or back from Geoff’s.  At _that_ point something went wrong and they wouldn’t say what.  So concerning that window of time.  Friend Geoff was not angry at Sasha, _they_ did not argue.  That much I could see when I spoke to him.  He’d called his girlfriend, Rene, first.  After chatting about the previous night and finding out that Sasha should be at home, we know that Geoff called the mobile and the family’s land line.  Sasha should definitely have been at home -- Rene claimed they’d seen him on the road.  She did not mention anything more, just that she had _seen_ him alive.  Of importance.  Obviously.  So.  He got the land line number from _her_.  He claimed he’d tried to call Sasha’s mobile mid-morning the next day, but it wasn’t working, he also wanted to know what had happened with the girls because _they_ were behaving strangely.  He called Mark, too, to ask where Sasha might be, at which point all four friends started looking for him, without telling the parents.  However.  One of them knew very well where he was.  Suspicion might fall first on Geoff, that he knew something, because when he finally talked to the mother he made up a story about having planned on going for a run with Sasha in the morning -- but he merely wanted to avoid worrying the mother and see if she was worrying, already.  She wasn’t.  She was convinced he’d come home and had gone back out.  In fact, she didn’t know if he’d come back or not that night from the pub, because she had not been home, herself.  The rest of the family was away visiting a cousin.  All four friends later joined the first search parties.  Hanging fliers and what not, putting out appeals to Sasha in social media.  One was merely playing at helper.  And would have known they’d all be called in for statements at some stage.  Went on as though nothing was wrong.”

“Clever.  Join the search party, play for time, lead them astray,” John shrugs, slicing a griddle cake. 

“Yes, of course.  Now, back to the car.  That night.  My thought was, if the one driving was also the one who’d started the argument, the others might have anticipated trouble.  But the facts showed otherwise.”

“Why?” 

“We know the driver was drunk which is one reason the women wouldn’t talk.  _Rene_ was driving Geoff’s car, in one bit of blurred CCTV footage close to her own house.  The rest of the passengers are not clearly visible. They encountered Sasha on the road home.”

“Ran him down.  Hid the body.”

“No.  But their argument continued there.  Sasha did not get _into_ the car, the car takes a different path than his phone, which logs off about twenty minutes after the car has driven away from his area -- we know that from the records of Rene’s phone.  The object of both arguments?  After talking to the girls, who hardly wanted to say a word about things, I deduced that it had concerned the female _passenger_ , Julia.  Whom Sasha loved.  He shouted at Mark at the pub over his treatment of Julia.  He offended Mark again on the road, Mark got out of the car.  Their only possible arbiter, Geoff, was home asleep by then.  Mark gets out, volunteers to carry on walking with Sasha, to work things out.  He has Sasha at his mercy once they’re alone, he has left his phone in the car, _purposely_.  To create an alibi.  Julia finds it with the battery run out, later, under the seat.  At which point he starts force-feeding her stories about Sasha wanting to leave the country, threatening her.  Mark eliminated his rival, claimed they'd argued and that Sasha had gone off alone again with the intention of leaving all of them behind.” 

“Wait.  So, why did they think he’d actually run away?” John asks.  “Not likely.”

“He’d withdrawn a large sum of money from his bank account.  _Mark_ claimed Sasha talked about how he  wanted to run off to Europe.  Julia said it was possible.  Had been threatened, remember, and had to corroborate it.  Said that they’d met in the pub for a last hurrah before he left.  In fact, Sasha had used the money to purchase an engagement ring for Julia.  The ring was hidden in a small bag and box on his bookshelf all this time.  Not immediately visible.”

“Hmm.  That’s -- incredible.”

“Well.  I established that Sasha’s body must be somewhere Mark knew to go, a property along Sasha’s route home.  Why bother with moving your rival’s body when you can lead him to a quiet place for an easy murder?  Where there's no need to waste time on a burial, and it could even look like an accident?  Where.  Where could he push in a friend, where he would not be discovered, so that he could get home quickly?” 

“Oh, God.  River?  No.  I don’t know.”

“Mark’s father works for the waterworks, a source of ideas, at least to me, it was.  I asked several elderly residents along the routes they could have taken around the time Sasha’s phone logged off.  One man indicated an abandoned property, tied up in litigation for years, falling to ruin, the gate lock is broken; they likely went in on a pretext, perhaps to smoke or -- to relieve themselves.  Sasha conceivably could have fallen in, but -- that is doubtful.”

“Fallen -- in where.  Oh, God.” 

“He was pushed into a septic tank, died of methane poisoning shortly afterward; he’d scarcely have uttered a sound.  The remains of an adult male and several small mammals were removed this morning.  You’ll read about it.”

“Jesus.  You mean.  The bloke’s -- dead.  He’s -- dead, after all.”

“Yes, he is.  Mark Lonsman is in custody for questioning, he’ll crack.”

“They waited.  Two years, not knowing where, hoping.  God.  Those parents.”

“Mm.” Sherlock shrugs and sips at his mug.

“They can put him to rest, yeah.”  John rubs his face and shakes his head.  “Brilliant creature, I missed it all.”

John and Sherlock stop by the police station for a final word, mid-morning; the body removed from the septic tank has been submitted to DNA testing though preliminary evidence suggests it is indeed the missing man.  The girls and the other male friend, Geoff, have agreed to give statements and cooperate.

“We have one more stop to make, we should be right on time.” Sherlock puts up his hand for a cab as they leave the building. 

“Where?”

“A suburb not far from here.”

***

“Why in God’s name are we snooping about like five year olds?” John whispers, from where he is crouched next to Sherlock near a utility box and trimmed shrubbery along a pavement in a good-looking neighbourhood; it is about to rain and he feels the beginnings of a loud sneeze in his nose from the cold.

“Shhh, stay down, watch the red door across the way.” Sherlock glances at his watch and rubs his gloved hands together.  “Any moment, now.  Ah!”

His gray eyes are tracking a young girl in a blue leather jacket and pink ear-hat who is walking up the road; she is holding an envelope in her hand; she rings the doorbell to the house in question and stands aside.  After a few long moments she rings again; a small dog yips rhythmically just indoors.  A plump, tired brunette with her hair pulled carelessly into a ponytail, dressed in shapeless gray yoga trousers and a hooded striped blouse opens up and scoops a trembling York terrier (its fringe in vulgar, tartan ribbons) into her arms.  “Sorry, yes?” she says impatiently, as the girl starts explaining that she’s just bringing by a misdirected letter, to which the former nods, takes the envelope, looks about and closes the door again.

“That -- uhm.” John has gone a shade paler; he is biting his lips sadly.

“Yes.  Elizabeth Pogue, formerly Loganhill.  Soon to be Loganhill once more.”

“Hmmm.  God.”

“Well.” 

“Hmmm.”

“Come.”

“Don’t _need this!_ ”

“The train.  Come.”

“You -- did the thing, with the letter.  Set it up.  Brought me here, to _look at her_.”

“Yes.”

“What -- for?  What the hell for.  Yourself?”

“John --” 

“Jealous, or?  What’s this about.  Showing how she’s -- now. Jesus.”

“Don’t be _offensive_ ,” Sherlock retorts, his voice dropping dangerously.  “She’s the stuff of your _night terrors_ , you say her _name_ in your _sleep_.”

“Still, not your problem.” 

“To update the memory, that’s why we’re here.”

“What the _hell_ would you know about --”

“It _works_.”

John pauses.  “Ffffff -- sodding -- hell."

“Change the status of what you remember.  She is not your lost photograph and a symbol of you, _as invalid_ , but a _bona fide_  house hen, presently living in separation from barrister Kevin Pogue, with a dog named Yorkers.”

“It’s -- hmmff.”

Sherlock’s kiss tastes like blood (his own).  It has come suddenly to their cracked lips as he licks at John with a wildness that can only come from a flurry of unexpressed words.   _I love you I love you I love you but I am not sorry --_

“Stop, love.  Just.  Hmmm.  Enough.”

“Understand me.  I would do far madder things, if it meant you would suffer any less, at all.”

John stares.  “I -- know.  I know.”

There is something desperate in Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, and then it vanishes as he looks away, presumably toward the main road; he wants a cab, and he is already heading away, intent on finding one. 

(The cabbie does an admirable job of ignoring them both once John has thought things through and has moved to kiss Sherlock back.)

Some hours later, when they are at Baker Street, Sherlock has John, upstairs, against the back of his bedroom door. Braced up on that odd old mirror, John watches his friend’s hands on his shoulders, chest, stomach and cock, his lips roving over his neck and back, his hips rubbing against John’s arse, his breath breaking into small groans.  He is forgetting himself.  This is no act, though if it were, it would still blow John’s mind to see it all, reflected in front of him; he catches a glimpse of Sherlock’s face, just after he has sunk his teeth into his shoulder. _I do that, to you.  This -- this.  Jesus Christ, oh, God -- oh God -- hmmm, oh -- g --_ “Can’t --“ John chokes out, as his knees start to shake and buckle.  Sherlock pulls him down and holds him from behind on his thighs (later John will realise he’d been spared the cold of the wooden floor) and brings him off in his hand as he goes soft, still inside of him.  Sherlock kisses John's neck that way for some time before he smiles and says, “Five.”

“I’m going to want more of those,” John answers.

Sherlock smiles more broadly, now.  “And how many.”

“As long as we both wake up alive.”

“We might get up.”

John is initially confused by that answer, but comes round, quickly:  “Heh, yeah, if you can still move.”

“If _you_ can.  I’ll run a bath, soldier,” Sherlock says, and rushes off to scrub his hands in secret, dressed only in his silk shirt.  John growls in general appreciation and crawls over to his own checked shirt -- earmarked to bear the aftermath of their lovemaking, and lounges on his bed for a few minutes of stupor before pulling on his bathrobe and going to meet his phoenix.  He finds him in the water, keen to have his back washed and his neck kissed.


	19. The first stone

“Skies are annoying.”

“At some point I’ll ask you to portray me in watercolour.  Form only.  A sketch,” Alex says, stretching his legs out in front of him on his olive-green velour-upholstered ottoman, one of a mushroom-like pair that look to have pushed their way into the flat during the Coal Mine Strikes.

“Insulting, to you,” Sherlock mumbles, as he dips his brush into a dish of water and watches the colour spread through it.

“The pupil should kill the master, as they say.  Like in the martial arts,” Alex remarks.

“They mean _exceed_ the master, not shatter his spirit and drive him to fall on his sword,” sighs Sherlock. “Ah.  And has the nurse checked your incision site?”

“Only yesterday, yes.  Do you know martial arts, I wonder?”

“A number of them.”

“So you might break me in half,” Alex replies, crossing his ankles.

“No need to resort to martial arts.  You, I would suffocate in the night.  Going by that septum of yours, the neighbours would applaud.  What.  Am I wrong?”

“No.  Laugh, go on, laugh, Lord knows how you are in _your_ sleep."

"Mmm."

"Your man is combat-ready, though, so his chances of survival are _higher_ than average, I'd say.”  Sherlock snickers a bit more.  Alex rubs his nose.  “Nothing wrong with my septum.  So.  When you were away, I finally got out on my own.  I was dreadfully bored, here.”

“Unwise of you.  Where?  _Ripe-hype_ in Earl’s Court for a coffee _?_ ”

“Ha.  Never.  I took a taxi to the _Glen Burns_ for a bit of reading, and to see their map collection in the library, upstairs.”

“You are not to use a banister to steady yourself,” Sherlock tells him with a glare that illustrates his disgust with his own imagination.  “It was in your discharge papers, page 12 of the patient’s guidebook.”

“I didn’t need to _steady_ myself, I was looking at the artwork,”  Alex protests and sighs.  He looks down at his hands.

“What.  What is it.”

“In fact, I met your brother, Mycroft, there.  Small world.”

Sherlock raises his brush from his paper and sets his teeth.  “Rubbish."

"It was him, indeed." 

"I don't deny that.  How much did he offer?  Or was it extortion using photographs?” Sherlock mutters.

Alex’s face falls.  “Does he usually -- oh, dear.” 

“Tell me the truth.”

“Well.  He was civil enough.”

“He was _civil_ to you?  Regarding your attire, your connections, your exes, your ancestry, your -- religious affiliation, languages spoken, your political affinities, and your job, then?”

“We were _both_ civil.  And a touch of flattery never hurts.”

“My digestion will be adversely affected.  You _flirted_ with my brother?”

“We were talking about his club.”

“Ah, understood.  His club _is_ the most appealing thing about him.  Nobody is allowed to speak a word in the common room and it attracts a truly perverse crowd.”  Sherlock raises his brush and drops a bit of ultramarine on a damp area of his paper to create a blotchy sky and hisses at it.  “What did Mycroft offer you.”

“He didn’t explicitly offer me anything.  But he -- does deductions like you, doesn’t he?  He can get any information he needs himself, I suppose, why would he ask me?  My opinions would hardly be useful.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replies.  He has five plausible explanations for Mycroft’s behaviour in his head, already.  _No.  Six.  Nnngh._  “Whatever he asks, there is no right answer,” Sherlock remarks.  “He answers _for_ you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Alex had noticed, and it has given him no peace, since.  _If that is your -- pose._

Sherlock dips his brush into a dish of water testily.  “Ehhh -- I’ve got raw sienna on my -- mmm.  _Sienna_ has hit the metaphorical fan.”

“Too late to pull that up with a blotter, it’s ruined.  Get another piece of paper for now and re-use the reverse side of that one once it’s dried.”  Alex clears his throat nervously.  “So...your brother likes to make the acquaintance of your acquaintances.  And has he ever tried to find lads from good families for you?”

Sherlock exhales edgily and rolls his eyes; his pause has already grown too long for a convincing denial.  _Edward Collingwood, repugnant prat.  Hubert Percels, odd ears, frequent burping, intolerable voice.  Nick Hurtfordshire, effete, dull.  Carlton Greenwich, peculiar wheeze in right nostril, neck flab.  Victor Trevor._  “Mmm.”  _Secretly promised to another._   “Occasionally.”

“Because that’s what David did, in the salons.  ‘ _He’s_ one, there, _his_ father owns a fleet of barges running clothing and plastics and to and from Hong Kong.  If you’ve decided you’re _queer_ at least have some _class_ about it’.” Alex suddenly looks quite troubled.  “But I think he meant well, all the same.”

“Calm yourself.”  Sherlock watches Alex clouding over for a few seconds more.  “Six foot two, bottle blond, manicured nails, tinted lenses, outwardly splayed feet, a walk suggesting vulgar piercing, peculiarly pointed cartilage on the tips of his ears, freckled nose, cleft chin, linen shirts from America which he pairs with Merino, rose gold casing on his watch, shoes shined to within an inch of their --“

“You know -- Kirby Rennard, Junior?  Oh, Lord, Sherlock.  Have mercy, tell me you haven’t --”

“We have.   _Shared_ _the same room at the tailor’s_.”  Sherlock chuckles as Alex groans into his palms.  “Barges?  Mmm.  I thought so, the sea-logistics bit.” 

Alex watches his friend pass a thicker brush dipped in water over the surface of a blank page.  “Sherlock,” he says. “Just out of curiosity, if you don’t get on with your brother, does John?”

“No,” Sherlock says, sweeping the brush with a flourish.  Water flies from it.  “Nobody gets on with him and that suits him more...than...perfectly.”  His eyes come up suddenly and he takes in a sharp breath.  “Out with it.  What did he _really_ want from you.”

“I -- well.”  Alex waves his hand superficially; he is about to say something quite mad, and it is scaring him half to death.  “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your digestion.  Your brother pointed something out to me, deduced something about me, the moment we met, that I admit I’d never been able to put into words, all these years.  Quite important.  Well.  I found him to be -- rather absorbing, quite honestly.”   _As a case study, due to my own weaknesses, perhaps,_ he leaves out, for the sake of propriety.  

"Absorbing."

“Would you have anything against me meeting him again?” Alex asks, waiting for an outburst of sarcastic laughter from his friend. 

It does not come.  

Sherlock has gone ascetic in appearance, his face mask-like.  He is trying to focus his thoughts in spite of a confusing stab in his stomach (anxiety, acid) that Mycroft would intercept _his_ friend at the club:  _corner him with his mordant, indefinite questions, and play at his ‘goldfish parlour games’, for hell knows what ends --_ “Why would I have anything against you meeting him again,” he replies mechanically. 

_He has chosen to appear now.  After suggesting that precedent.  Think!  No.  He was digging for Alex’s history early on -- ‘the peerage’ of the mother -- the medical files on the mitral stenosis, knew about my initial encounter with Alex, even his lime scent.  How?  Why?  Why the interest?_

“Very well,” Alex answers, nervously plucking his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and cleaning them on a shirt tail.

“Mmm.”

“Well.  So.”

“Jens,” Sherlock reminds him, sharply. 

Alex glances down through the glasses and swallows.

 _No, you’re not like that._   Sherlock leans forward and says in Alex’s ear, “Where is your phone, this is delicate.”

Alex points toward his coat, across the room.  Sherlock nods. He whispers, “This isn’t one of your nineteen-sixties spy novels.  This is _not your world_.”

Alex feels he cannot sustain the fiction of their conversation for another second.  He whispers back, “Even so, it is well if I continue this _my_ way.”

Sherlock is afraid he will lose his composure in a moment; he is getting a headache.  “ _Your_ way?  Have a care, this isn’t a joke.”

“If I think John is _suitable,_ he asked.   _Information_.  About you and John, and changes he expects in your relationship.  I'm sorry, it doesn't make sense.”

For several seconds, Sherlock’s nose prickles; he is furious and mortified at once.  “What did you say to him.”

“That I don’t know John well and I can’t comment.  It’s the truth.”

Sherlock closes his eyes.  “Okay, thank you.”

“I’ll not be your _lad_ ,” Alex says in Sherlock’s ear.  “And why not?”

“John.”

“ _Wrong_.”

“Explain.”

“He won’t send me _your_ way, when he sees I’m not interested in you _._ ”

“You -- no.”

“I’m not made of _glass_.”

“No games.  He’ll see through you, and gladly throw the first stone.”

“Well.  Somehow, I’m not afraid.”

“Because you’re an _idiot_.  He’s the most dangerous man in England, and that is no exaggeration.”

There is an uncomfortable silence; Alex whispers, “I believe you.  You’re not well at all, are you.”  He turns his head and kisses Sherlock’s cheekbone, very close to his left eye. 

It is one of the most emotional touches Sherlock has experienced outside of his relationship with John, and he has to remind himself, consciously, not to lean into it. 

“I'll make you a cup of coffee,” Alex says, drawing away and standing slowly with a grunt of pain as he rights himself.  Sherlock looks him over carefully, reassured that he shows no signs of arousal.  “Four sugars, was it?”

***

“Where’s -- my cup.” Sherlock looks in the direction of the living room table from where he is now, flat on his back on the sofa.

“Washed it, love,” John replies.

“I thought it was -- mmm.  Empty.”

“That’s why I washed it out.  _C'est pas ma.  Hmmm, ma tasse de thé._ *  Heh.  Want to go for a walk?  Just through the park.”

“I’ve never noticed that.  The change between _is_ and _was_ in the form of noticing space.  Experiencing emptiness like that in terms of a missing thing.”

“Sherlock,” John says, annoyed that his friend is ignoring him _and_  his first attempt at a French language pun. 

“Mmm.”

“It’s almost sunny for once, I’d like to take advantage of it.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Coming, love?  For a walk.  You’ve been flopped out there on the sofa all morning.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock stands and indicates that he is dropping his phone on the table on his way out.  John does the same.

***

“John, I have news,” Sherlock says, as he and John pass the edge of the Boating Lake and head toward the pitches.

“News about what?”

“Vilnius.”

“Yeah.”  John puts an arm on Sherlock’s back, a small reassuring gesture that leaves a ghost feeling; it suspends Sherlock’s thoughts for a moment.  He steps away and John casts his eyes down immediately.

“February eighth, four days, travel by air.  Arrange things,” Sherlock tells him.

“Together, this time?”

“Mmm?”

“Will we be together.  Last time you knew someone might take you off the street, in Vienna.  Need to know what’s happening this time round.” 

John thinks of Alex drawing a portrait of the restless man he’d seen leave after Sherlock from a Viennese cafe.  Sending it to Mycroft.  His solitary return to England.  

“Anticipating danger versus putting one’s self in harm’s way.  There’s a tangible difference,” Sherlock says, airily.

“ _Which_ are you doing this time round.”

“Unclear.  But I’ll need your assistance.”

“With?”

“You wouldn’t, for four days abroad?”

“Oh, I would.  And not just to warm the bloody bed.”

“I’ll be working with a Pole named Roman Wilk.”

“And?  What’s his part in it?”

“I plan to determine that.  Too little evidence to go on, now.”

“Can’t take my Sig this time, either.  Flying.”

“Mmm.  No.”

“Won’t your brother fill you in?” John asks.

“He has, we’ve met three times over it.  It’s merely a feeling that there is more to our contacts than meets the eye.”

“So it’s another European Union thing?  Lithuania is in the EU, right?”

“Not here, John, all the parks in London are loaded with microphones these days.”

John lowers his voice.  “Tell me in my ear.”

“No.  I’ll explain another time.”

“We’re talking now.”  John looks even more tensed up than before.  “Go on,” he mutters.

“I -- would move on to kiss your ear,” Sherlock says, thinking it might make John smile.  It does not.

“Then do it,” John replies.

“John.”

“Look, I’m not hiding _this_ all my life.”

“Then again, why flaunt it.”

“Who’s flaunting.” John leans closer. 

“It concerns hand-delivery,” Sherlock says, softly.

“Of what.”

“A memory stick.”

“That’s it?  Wh -- why?  Fly all the way there?”

“The national security apparatus.  Wasteful.  You’d not fathom how wasteful.  How -- John.”

“This is hot, like this.”

“Yes.”

“Like it?”

“Yes.”

“Sod them.  Kiss me.”

“John.”

“I’m in love.  Sod them.”

“Shouldn’t.”

“What’s the difference.  What is the bloody difference.  They can listen to us fuck at the hearth, in our own flat.  I’m at home, this is Regent’s bloody Park.  Kiss me.” 

“Different audience, less attentive.”

“This one’s -- a hell of a lot better,” John says, gesturing at a few joggers and elderly people some yards away from them.  “Real people.  Who have real feelings, real families and real friends.  And know what it means.  People.”

Sherlock squeezes his teeth together.  “ _People_ ,” he snaps.

“Look, I can’t live -- like --“

“Say it.  John.”

“How did you manage this, before,” John asks his own crossed arms; he cannot seem to raise his head, now.

“How I behaved with previous partners, how I approached the matter?”

“Slipped out.”  John swallows and rolls his tongue around in his mouth, trying to shut himself up. 

“ _Indoors_.  And regarding Vilnius,” Sherlock says to him.  “There can be no physical signs of involvement between us, when we're there.”

“Not something we need to rehearse, is it?”

“No.  What do you mean.”  Sherlock furrows his eyebrows and looks away.

“No, love, no.  I meant, _I don’t want to have to rehearse it_.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry, love, no.  Uhm.  Can’t find my place today.”

“We’re walking, let’s walk.” 

“When we get back, we’ll warm up some of that soup.  The one you -- made last night.”

“What.”

“You’re feeding me up so bloody well, I’m surprised I’ve not put on weight.”

“You burn it off.”

“Burn it off.  Yeah.”

“Well, you do, in fact.”

“Hmmm.”

“You take brisk walks.”

“Is that what they call it.  Frisky, brisk walks.”

“Mmmm.”

“It’s the sun,” John shrugs and points loosely at the sky.  “Can’t wait for spring.”

“Neither can I.”

“With you.”

“Yes.”

“In the grass, with you.”

 _Must locate grass._  “Mmhmm.”

“You know, though.  Something’s going on with Will.  He’s completely cut himself off.  Not just from me.  From Marv, too.”

“And?  Call.”

“Hmm.”

____________________

* _French text:_

_\- It's not my cup of tea._


	20. Ant or man

Alex is seated in a high-backed leather chair, a soft-lit table lamp illuminating a copy of the Swiss weekly _Heute und Morgen_ in his lap.  He has come to the _Diogenes_ to see the character of the club, not expecting that its founder has been keenly watching _his_ character:  his manners and willingness to defer to the quiet of the place, despite his discomfort with the clicking sound in his own chest. After a pleasant hour in the intense silence of the paneled, white-ceilinged reading room with padded flooring, an attendant dressed somewhat like a theatre usher approaches him and extends a card toward him in a white-gloved hand.  It is a hand-written invitation for tea in twenty minutes’ time, to which Alex nods his assent and returns to the article he is reading. 

He is escorted from the room by the same solemn man, punctually, and shown to an austere office.  To Alex’s eye Mycroft is a striking point of contrast (dark beige, blue tie, aqua pocket square).  He is sitting behind his desk, which is nearly empty, save file folders.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Nussbaum,” Mycroft begins.  “You won’t disturb anyone in here, the walls are absolutely soundproof.”

“Thank you,” Alex replies.

“Is it of interest to you?” the elder Holmes brother asks, slinking out from behind his desk and standing perpendicular to Alex, who is now appraising an oil painting on Mycroft’s wall with a slight frown of concentration on his pleasant face.

“Annigoni’s portrayal is my second favourite of her Royal Highness after Dargie’s in yellow.” Alex sighs.  “Timeless.  Honestly, I’ve never cared for the later one in cardinal red,” he adds. 

“I see,” Mycroft quips, rather than openly agreeing, as he moves several files on his desk demonstratively.   _Sherlock’s second goldfish.  Amicus alter ipse.  Classically tutored in philosophy and literature in childhood, partly by family members, at home -- ill.  Coddled, abhorred it.  Manners from the aunt and grandmother, intensified by stress.  Noted._

Alex sits down near a small side table and a wooden tea trolley, in accordance with a sudden offhanded gesture to the effect of _be seated_.

“An adequate copy,” the artist says, glancing up at the painting again.

“Really?  I executed it myself, in fact, as Sherlock has doubtlessly told you.”

Alex shakes his head.  “I’d no idea you painted, sir.”

Mycroft’s glare, narrowed upon Alex’s profile, softens a single degree but remains mistrustful.  “A gift for my father, years ago.”

“Surely he was very pleased with it,” Alex replies, a flicker of sadness passing through his eyes.

 _Empathy.  Aimless.  Noted_.  It is brief enough to miss, were one careless enough to.  Mycroft raises an eyebrow.  “Well, then.  The lending rate of the bank you were reading about ten minutes ago, in the text concerning Moldavia that ignores the danger of an annexation scenario, was tailored to the advantage of a certain influential but little-known Italian fund run by an all-German and Austrian board.  _Heute und Morgen_ won’t mention that, then again, why would it when its editor pointedly turns a blind eye to the East under financial pressure from one of its French owners with majority stock in _Lerut_ , the manufacturer of frames for the night goggles preferred by separatists who align themselves with rogue general Petryenko, whose radical para-military support in a quadrant near two key border areas most certainly chosen for their repair roads, leading to a pipeline....”

He drones on in this tenor as they sip at a magnificently heady tea in green and gold _Limoge_ -type porcelain -- decorated with tiny, hand-painted hunting scenes.  Alex lets his eyes rove over a pair of self-satisfied hounds with the broken forms of ducks in their teeth and reminds himself to breathe.  And smile.  After several minutes he already understands that he is facing a master strategist, who is equally icy toward nearly every topic and person he refers to -- and there are dozens in play at any given moment; the man seems indifferent to anything which cannot be examined as a bit of a greater cluster, bundled tightly by events; Alex imagines a nexus of Venn diagrams of changing scope and bend.  On the other hand, he feels that Mycroft resembles Sherlock in his rather worrisome attention to minutiae surrounding them.  Alex is all the more perplexed that Mycroft should ask _him_ about Doctor John Watson.  And is rapidly rethinking his reasons for sitting where he is -- beyond shared tea time, which he is determined to weather with all the grace he can still muster. 

Mycroft pauses and seems to look him over for signs of wear and tear.  Briefly.  “What has brought you here today?” he asks, at the precise moment Alex is asking himself the same thing.

“The desire to leave my four walls.  And go somewhere I wouldn’t be disturbed in my reading.”

Mycroft’s lips twitch down at the corners.

“Not a complaint, Mr. Holmes.  I didn’t dare expect you’d be in.”

“I wonder.  Does seeing me require _daring_ on your part, Mr. Nussbaum?” Mycroft asks.

“Of course it does,” Alex answers disarmingly.  “I keep few acquaintances.”

“Would you care for another?” 

Alex glances up at Mycroft and nearly smiles. _Acquaintance, or cup?  Cup._ After a pregnant delay of several seconds, Mycroft indicates a massive silver teapot, the entire interior of which is plated in old gold.

“I -- would.  Do you mind?” Alex asks, embarrassed at the thought that he is, in fact, still unable to pick up a large pot singlehandedly.

“Not at all.” Mycroft raises the pot and pours a stream of golden tea.  He hands it to Alex, who drops his eyes.

“I haven’t experienced one of such enigmatic character for some time,” the artist remarks.

“It’s a Tieguanyin oolong.”

“I see,” Alex answers, “you indulge your guests.”

“You are mistaken,” Mycroft volleys back, “in assuming I serve it regularly.”

Alex closes his eyes for a moment and sniffs the steam from his cup _._   “Well.  Thank you for sharing it with me.”

 _Three open-heart surgeries to date, each delayed.  Fluent Latin and German, poor reading level in French, no nod to the mother’s line, there.  Buried seven close family members in a period of eleven years, the last of them the mad brother -- relevant traits overlapping those of my own dear brother’s:  fascination with death, counting and OCD (noted) nearly three years ago.  A failed suicide attempt in university following a fictional engagement to a woman -- method of choice:  a leap from an historic building, thwarted due to the inability to climb the stairs.  Abandoned psychology in spite of excellent marks and the promise of an internship at the finish.  Drafting.  Ludicrous and wasteful choice._

“You are welcome,” Mycroft says stiffly, aware that he has wasted several extra seconds on deductions, without cause.  He has noted and catalogued the ghastly distraction of Alex’s watch.  A surveillance photograph from the train station in Vienna comes to his mind:  -- _the discomfort on John’s face as Nussbaum handed him that exact watch --_

 _Superstitiously religious, fears purgatory but not the faithless ‘Father’ Bryan at a certain nearby cathedral, tsk tsk.  Iris -- a frivolous choice, indulging the self, reactive, silly.  An Austrian-made jacket, a favourite, the woman the superior craftsperson of the two who stitched it together just before the return to England -- and to his Swedish architect, who has not spoken to him in days -- he finds this draughtsman fellow far less transparent than the glass walls he thinks in terms of -- stale._

Alex is aware of the scrutiny of his entire self and many of his current thoughts.  It is difficult to match it up to anything he has experienced, and his mind is quickly going blank, trying.  He feels, he decides cautiously, as though he was under Sherlock’s most unfeeling stare, through a magnifier, in full sun.  And yet, Alex reasons, it is still _his_ decision whether he is ant or man.   _Isn’t it?_  

In this state of suspension, Alex sips and waits to be re-asked a question that never comes, regarding John.  

He muses as he leaves the office a half-hour later that he’d no clue the state of the Caucasus Mountain region could look so dangerous in less than a month’s time.  He is quite exhausted.

***

 _“J'espère que nous aurons l'occasion -- de nous recontacter -- oui.”_ Sherlock rings off and sets his phone aside; John has come home to see his 'sexy French neighbour' fantasy:  Sherlock prone on the sofa, dressing gown flowing toward the floor, in soft house clothes, mussy-headed, with a pen in his fingers, which he is twirling about.  His shirt is pulled up enough to have exposed part of his stomach (navel, a flash of pelvis).  The only missing element is the violin, which is close enough, on a chair near the right-hand window.

John stops in the middle of the living room to admire his friend a little, noticing that he looks so mussed because he is freshly-scrubbed and hasn't combed out his nest of hair; the house clothes are _not_ accidental -- a favourite pair of silk pyjama trousers are paired with a black t-shirt plucked from John’s wash basket, most probably for its scent (he’d slept on Sherlock’s pillow while he’d been off in Manchester, himself, so he won't say a word).  

“ _Comment ça va, mon phénix?_ ” John asks, smiling, pink-eared.   _Want you, too._

“ _Bien_.”

“How are things, though.”

“The existence of a thing is a source of being, continually in effect.”

“ _Ça va_ with the mucoid lining of _that_ stomach, there,” John says, his smile growing strained just before it disappears beneath his teeth, as he starts biting and worrying at his lips.

“Results on the table.”

John strides over to them and pulls a lab report and a prescription from an envelope.

“Errm...oh.  So.  Hmm.  _H. pylori_ , then.  Right.  He’s still planning on the biopsy.”

“Yes, of the lining and the duodenum for evidence of _rogue_ cells, as he affectionately calls them.  The _rogues_ are occasionally linked to _polyps_.  Getting more exciting all the time, doctor.”  He has started out childishly but ends rather flatly; he looks tired of his own thoughts and tosses the pen in his hand onto the coffee table.

“Hey, now.  Hey.” John walks over and kneels down by the sofa and rubs that exposed belly, sexy and warm but boiling inside.  “I have some lists for you.  Food choices, on their acidic and alkaline properties, sugars, everything.  Interested?  No big changes aside from cutting out milk, you’ve already made the most important switches in the foods you’re -- well, _we’re_ eating.”

“Yes.”

“Antibiotics?  So you mentioned the migraines?  This one should be all right.  Acid blockers.  It’ll heal but not overnight, it’ll be a long-term thing, they can come back quickly.”

“Mmm.”

“Tell me all the ways I can calm you.”

“I’ll prepare a report with recommendations.”

“Make it with short, active sentences. What are all those papers for over the hearth?  Case?”

“Oh. That?  The next round of materials durability tests for the consumer safety agency, an idea.”

“Yeah?  Really?” 

 _So pleased, proud_.  Sherlock watches John’s lips, still thin with concern but softening, and the lines around his eyes that are crinkling gently with fondness, and it is all _there_ , _so real_ , _appealing, kind._   _Attractive_.  Sherlock doesn’t care a mote about the new testing schema at the moment; it is a matter of agreeing with himself to endure the tedium -- of typing it out.  _Somehow_.  “Of the texts you’ve edited, six have ‘gone to press’ already.  None of the others have overtly been rejected but are stuck at peer review for substantive analysis, that rot.”

“Not rot.  See, you’ll show them all,” John states and raises his chin.  “You have.”

“You’re hungry.” Sherlock smiles and sits up.  “Aren’t you.”

“Keep talking, beautiful.”

 _Voice recognition software.  Obviously!  Why bother typing --_ “Baked salmon.  Wild rice.”

“Hmmm, fantastic,” John kisses Sherlock a few times on the lips and cheek.  “Be right down again.” He marches off to change clothes upstairs.

Sherlock follows John with his eyes and then lets them drop shut.   _A pity about the goats, they maintained the grass-of-Lagrasse well, significantly reduced the risk of wildfire -- though there isn’t much to burn, it hardly matters, now._

_Mmm, soldier._

John has come back dressed down in softer, older clothes to find Sherlock in the kitchen.  His eyes are gleaming as he watches Sherlock pull out and set aside a baking tin with the steaming salmon in foil.  “Got plans?  The table is emptier than I’ve seen it in weeks.  This is about the -- you know.  Five months?”

“Well.  Yes.”  Sherlock takes John’s hand and is examining it.  

“That’s brilliant, love.  So we’re celebrating, again, sort of.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

John is beaming, even more than before. 

“How was work?” Sherlock asks, studying John’s expression around his eyes, which is promisingly ambiguous.

“Nothing unusual.  A lot of -- heh, hmm.”

“What.  Out with it, John.”

“I have _honey_ for you.  Acacia, but from someone else this time.”

“Thank you.” 

“In my room.”

“Salmon.”

“Wh -- oh, yeah.”

It is certainly not the first  time they have quietly eaten salmon in that state, John thinks, just before becoming aware that Sherlock is parceling his food into bits, which he is pushing about on his plate into even groupings.

___________________

_* Latin and French texts:_

_- "A friend is another self."_

_\- We'll be in touch again soon._

_\- How are you, my phoenix?_

_\- Fine._

_\- How is it?_


	21. Change

“You invited Alexander Nussbaum for tea.” Sherlock’s hands are folded at chest level.  He is thrumming with barely-suppressed annoyance.

“I did.  He mentioned it, of course,” Mycroft replies from behind his desk, glowering at a nearby pen.

“No.  Why?”

“For a friendly chat."

“To addle his brain with your political macramé, more accurately," Sherlock growls.

“Brother, you’re out of line.”

“Dusting out your aquarium, I take it.”

“Mind yourself," Mycroft snaps.

“For your sake, you will not offend that man," Sherlock tells him.

“Naturally, not.  You’d want to maintain exclusive rights, there.”

“Shut up.”

“Opening gambits aside, have you given further consideration to my offer?” Mycroft asks.  

“Offer,” Sherlock snorts.

“Sherlock.  It’s a way out, a quiet exit.”

“Think!  What connected Mum and father!”

“I did, in the beginning,” Mycroft says, glibly and studies his cuff.

Sherlock is inches from dashing the table lamp next to him against the nearest wall.

“You haven’t spoken to John about it.  You think you’re _sparing_ him.” Mycroft glances aside and sets his jaw.  “My own brother, patron of the suffering.  Quite the reversal.  Rather than running ahead and informing him _post factum_. A bit of a habit?”

“Fuck off, that ‘running ahead’ was _your_ idea.  Your plan.  Both times,” Sherlock stares into Mycroft’s eyes, with intent.

“Tsk, tsk.  Taking on the rhetoric of _friends_?” Mycroft asks.

“Infinitely preferable to that of family, I find.  Then again, how would _you_ know --”

“So belligerent.” Mycroft’s nose itches; he will not give Sherlock the satisfaction of imagining he’d seen a tell, however.

***

John has met Will, his orthopaedist friend, for drinks.  The man has lost several pounds and appears to have aged around the eyes; John’s initial concern that Will has fallen into a drinking habit is not entirely incorrect, but he sees a man under incredible pressure.

“It’s my Sandra.  Long story,” he says in the beginning. 

They aren’t able to touch on it again until well into their second drink. 

“We wanted kids, you know.  She got pregnant once, but.  It was ectopic.”  Will explains briefly; it is a monologue that becomes quite painful to both men, for their own abstracted and unmentionable reasons, and he cuts it short.

“Shit,” John mumbles and nurses the tumbler of whiskey which he has been shoving around the tabletop in small circles. 

“Scared her and me both to hell.  We quit trying after that.  Quit everything.”

“Yeah.” 

John nods and looks away.  Will pulls out a handkerchief and wipes down his forehead and dripping nose.  

They change the subject in response to an advert for an upcoming representative match, blasting from a telly on the wall across the pub.  Will bows his head and coughs.

“You know, John.  See.  Recently you asked for a name of a good OB-GYN, for your friend, for that girl, right?” Will explains.

“Yeah.  Thanks for that.”

“Yeah.  But.  Look.  I said, Sandra, you’ve been avoiding things, just go in and check, have a pap, you know, check.  She was avoiding going.  Hates doctors, she says -- to a doctor.  So what did we get back from the lab?”

“She -- wh --“

“Yeah.  And.  Now, she’s about to have a hysterectomy and they’ll assess if it _is_ stage three, like they think it is.  Know?”

 _“Fuck._ Are you serious?”

“ _My_ Sandra.  My _beautiful wife, John_.”

“Jesus Christ.  Sorry.” 

“How did I not know anything?  How?  Ha.  There’s the question, right there.”

“She -- hid it?” John asks.  “Was she having any pain, or?”

“No.  Didn’t feel any pain, just indigestion-type, she’s, yeah, well, I wouldn’t see.  We’re together, sort of in name only.”

“Sh -- jeez.”

“Look.  She -- met this yoga-guru wanker three years ago, she said it was sort of an infatuation and nothing came of it, but.  Now, look.  We’re going to fight for her life, and.  Yeah.”  Will looks away.

“What can you do.  A day at a time.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry to hear it.  God.”

“Not going to open our doors this summer are we, mate.”

“Nope.”  John picks up his whiskey and sloshes half of it down his throat.  _Jesus Christ, love, you're invested in this too.  And Linda.  Fuck._ “Where is she, though?”

“Ascot.”

“When’s your train back?”

“She’s out there at our cottage because, no hurry.  Know what I mean.  We’re not -- on speaking terms.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

The two doctors stare down at the table and reflect.  Will shakes his head and sips.

“Marv knows?” John asks, finally.

“Not yet.”

“Hmm.” John downs the rest of the whiskey, hoping to burn a hole through the pressure in his throat.

“You and your -- are things sort of working out for you, then, with --?”

“Yeah.”

“That's all right.  Look, keep this to yourself for now.”

“Sure.”

“I think Sandra sort of wants to tell people her own way.  She is so god damned stubborn.”

“That'll come in useful.”

“Yeah.  There is that.”

“I’m going to need to tell Sherlock, though, he’s -- uhm.  Involved in this, too.”

“Yeah.  Get you another?”

“Sure.”

Will stands up and totters toward the bar for the drinks and John pulls out his phone.

_Developing initial outline and slides for Passau.  SH_

_I’m thinking of you.  SH_

_Abstract on coagulants for you to read tomorrow.  SH_

He goes to reply and blanks out for a moment.  His ears are ringing. 

A dream of his is slowly folding shut.  It _hurts_.  But there’s something else, even more painful, dancing behind his eyes, making his nose water and ache, in the middle of the noisy pub.  _Jesus, I have to keep you well, you beautiful creature, or I’ll go round the fucking bend, wouldn’t stand it if it ever took a turn.  Wouldn’t.  Fuck.  Enough.  Enough, stop this._  He writes and deletes several replies before settling on one:

                _Thinking about you, too.  Wait up for me?_

_OK.  SH_

He has his glass up to his lips before he remembers that Will hadn’t even got the word “cheers” out of his mouth before he’d grabbed the damned thing, like an FFP for a bleeding man.  He points that out and gets a faint smirk from Will.

“All right?” Will ventures.

“Yeah, yeah.”

***

John isn’t pissed but his movements are slow and he reacts incompletely.  He sees Will to a cab and takes another, asking to stop several blocks from the flat so he can get some air.  When he comes into the living room, Sherlock is sitting calmly, knees up, in his armchair; he has lit a fire and settled in with a monograph, most probably another of the older copies about beekeeping he’d recently got from John’s Slovakian patient. 

 _Dreams, yours and mine._   “Hey,” John starts, unceremoniously, standing several paces off with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Good evening, John.”  _Three whiskies.  And you have news._ Sherlock’s eyes are coursing up and across John’s entire body, resting at his shoulders, hands and face for longer.  

_See, love.  My idea’s gone to hell.  Can’t be helped, life getting in the way, as it does, one carries on, I’ll take on more hours, nothing that can’t -- be got over -- of course.  No bother.  Fuck._

“What are you reading, there?” John asks, clearing his throat.

“The cut-cell method of raising queens without grafting,” Sherlock replies.  “Everything all right?”

“Nah.” John flops into his armchair and puts out his left leg to warm it, setting his heel on Sherlock’s seat, by his thigh.  “Read, love.” _You should have everything you dream about.  Everything.  Spoil you, gorgeous creature._

Sherlock raises the monograph, looking across at John again with another measuring, speculative glance. 

 _Metal gray.  Lead gray._   John suddenly remembers that he had completely forgotten to kiss his friend; he’d meant to come straight over; he’d missed a moment, somehow.  He rubs his face and closes his eyes.  “Read it to me, if you like.” 

“ _The parallel saw cuts in the ends of the box allow the queen excluder to be placed and bent easily.  A small hole drilled into the end of the box allows for drone movement_.  Hardly your usual hearth-side reading, soldier.”

John reopens his eyes and stares into the fire.  Sherlock wants very much to know what is eating at his little wolf; he rubs at the arch of John’s humid foot with his fingertips and turns a page.  “How is your friend?  Aside from the recent drinking binge?” he asks.

“Not tonight, all right?” John sighs through his nose and sets his lips.

“Okay.  Tea?”

“Nnn-no.  Thanks, love.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock is looking at him closely again.  John considers their missed kiss, rocks forward and pulls himself out of his chair with a step that says his knees ache, and leans down over Sherlock, resting his stronger arm just behind Sherlock’s shoulder.  He would climb in between his thighs, were he feeling any other way than _this_.  _Like a sack of shit._   “Sorry, I smell.  I know, whiskey.”  He pets his friend’s cheek with his thumb.  “I love you so much.  Beautiful.”  His eyes have gone inky and dark but he is anything but aroused.  He rubs his lips against Sherlock’s forehead.

“Regarding his difficult relationship with Sandra, obviously,” Sherlock fills in.

“Not tonight.  “Kay?”

“Not a divorce.  Not yet, anyhow.”

“Shhh.  Said.  Don’t want -- to go into it.”

_Congested nose.  Disturbed.  Concerning their clinic.  A blow, postponement.  Not divorce, illness.  The woman is ill._

Sherlock elects wisely to shut his mouth, opening it only to accept John’s kisses.


	22. The courier

“Three shirts too many,” Sherlock comments through a smirk, when John appears in the bedroom doorway, starkers, with a soft-sided travel bag in his grip.  “Unimportant, you’ll live in the jumpers.  Might even sleep in one.  Nights are still sub-zero.”

“Yeah, not much.  Hand-luggage, I mean, don’t need more.”

“Mmm.  You didn’t pack a hat.”

“How --“ John smiles and clears his throat.  “Have -- everything, love?”

“Yes.”

“Wh - ere?” John is thinking of the memory stick he’d seen in Sherlock’s possession earlier that afternoon; he’d met Mycroft one last time. Later, he’d shadowed John around the flat almost continually; John had actually bumped into him twice. (The second time he’d grabbed onto Sherlock, held him in place, and kissed him against a door jamb, standing on his tiptoes.)

“Shaving kit.”

“Uhm.  All right.”  John raises his eyebrows and sets his bag aside.  _You’re_ not dressed under there, are you?”

“Nnnno.”  As proof, perhaps, Sherlock holds open the blankets for John, who has come all the way downstairs wearing nothing but a wide grin, and for once seems in need of warming, himself.  “Come John, I want to tell you a story.  Closer, here.”

“Hmmm, yeah.” John scoots up to Sherlock and puts his forehead against the pillow. 

“There is a man.  A courier has brought word to him, a summons.  When I say word has been given, it is literally a _single_ word.  When he opens the envelope with the message, he doesn’t yet know what he will read.”

“Right.”

Sherlock pets John’s head and neck.  “When he opens it, he finds a card inside that says _Choose_.”

“ _Choose_.  That’s all?”

“Well.  He knows what it means once he sees it.  Naturally, he does.  And that’s the entire point of the delivery.  That he should be told this single word,” Sherlock explains.

“Hmmm.”  John shifts his weight and puts a hand over Sherlock’s lower stomach, which has started growling noisily, as though they hadn’t just enjoyed a light supper an hour before. _Nerves, love, calm you down._

“That’s where difficulties begin.  Nobody seems to question that a courier is given the messages to deliver, and that it is never certain who the sender is.  Nobody asks.  The man has been eager to receive his but once he has, his own questions multiply.  Why has he waited for this?  Is this truly the message he should have expected?  What _choice_ fulfills the command?  Is it even a command?  And is it a command to make one masterful choice or to choose continually?  He decides it might be the latter of these things, though he understands he can have no sense of completion or even know whether he has interpreted it correctly.  How does one know, then?  He consults his memory of others who had received their messages and notes that none of them had ever explicitly shared _what_ they’d got.  Perhaps they’d all received the same thing and never known it?  Another matter.  Who oversees what they do next?  Since nobody knows exactly who sends the messages, at what interval and with whom should one check one’s understanding, progress, failure, and so forth, and is it relevant?  The man is so disturbed that he starts to run in the direction of the courier, and when he is nearly exhausted, spies him ahead.  He catches up and grasps the man and says, ‘A question.  On one point, just one:  who sends the messages?’ The courier is shocked by the question and doesn’t say a word at first.  Clearly nobody has ever asked him before.  ‘I’m a courier’, he replies, defensively, and turns to go.  ‘Yes, but who gives them to you to deliver?’ ‘Nobody, in fact.  For generations, sir’, he says. ‘You see, I inherited this job from my father and he from his, we have always been couriers.  There was once a sender, who stood behind many wise words.  But after he died, it seemed far better to continue delivering his old words than find a new sender who might have proven inferior.  After all, it is tradition.  You were waiting for your message.’ The man is irritated by that reply and the courier sees his anger.  ‘Oh, I see.  You don’t know why you were waiting, is that it?’ he asks.  The man replies, ‘I do know.’  To that, the courier nods.  ‘Well, yes.  You see, _that_ means you know the tradition.  The word itself is secondary, I’ve always thought so’.  The man shouts, ‘Who would have judged the new sender to be inferior!  Who would know!  Would it matter to anyone?’  He’s quite sure that none of it matters.  Well.  And there is a conundrum.  Of sorts.”

John hums and shakes his head.  “Yeah.  Right.  So, does that man start ‘choosing’, or?”

“Of course he does.  Just like he had before,” Sherlock says, running his fingers along John’s cheek and jawline, up and down again.

“Nothing changes, then?”  _Not that I know what was happening in that story, but what the hell._

“Well.  At first, the word seems to validate what he already does but he soon sees the pointlessness in acknowledging it as underlying any of his actions.  See?”

John looks over at Sherlock and bites the inside of his cheek.  “Oh,” he says.  “So is it, sort of about atheism, or?  I don’t think I’m getting this.  Love.”

“No.”

“Sexual identity, maybe?” John suggests.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I don’t -- uhm.”

“Fine.  It was intended to be an erotic story but I forgot part of it in the middle.  Due to the proximity of your right hand,” Sherlock replies, and huffs.

“Hmm, really?” 

“Really.”

“What _should_ have happened?” John’s hand is skimming warmly, lower.

“Nothing that isn’t happening now, in spite of the poorly-construed ending to that story.  I’d meant to -- mmmm.”

 _The brain of a philosopher and the body of a_ \-- John will finish that thought when he has finished exploring the flat, smooth planes of skin and rougher hair beneath his fingertips.  “Tell it again, then.”  John is snickering silently against Sherlock’s chest, where he has bent his head down to lick a circle over Sherlock’s heart.  “You okay?”

“Very okay.”

“You are.  Aren’t you.” John wraps a hand over Sherlock’s hip and strokes it, wandering between Sherlock’s legs and catching his friend’s erection against the crook of his thumb, rubbing it from below in his palm.

“That feels -- very good,” Sherlock mumbles.

“I’ll retell it.  Face me -- yeah.  There is a man.  He is about to meet a courier, with a message, dispatched for him that morning.  He’s been expecting it.  The courier arrives and delivers an envelope.  The envelope is empty, though, and the man feels like he’s been cheated.  Here he’s been waiting.  And there’s nothing there.  What he doesn’t know is that if he gets his message it will lead him off, somewhere far away.  And he will go because he has to.  The courier is using his position to prevent the call from being communicated.  To the man.  Because.  He wants him.”

“Mmmm.”

“Each time, the courier steals the messages and hides them.  Another empty envelope follows.  Then another, and another, and another.  The man is so frustrated that he decides he will put a stop to all of it.  And he grabs the courier one day and forces him to stay while he opens...yet another empty envelope.  The man shakes him and shouts, ‘What was I _not supposed_ to see!  Tell me now or we’re going to end this right here!’  He’s so rough that the courier’s coat is pulled half off and a stack of small folded cards fall out of his pocket, which fall over the ground.  ‘This is what you weren’t supposed to see, those were all for you’, the courier says, and backs off, as the man bends down to collect them.  They each bear a single handwritten phrase:  _I love you.  I love you.  I love you_.  When the man opens them, each one is a summons to leave, to a different place, somewhere he would never want to go.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock whispers without distinguishing whether he is impressed by the story or John’s hand circling and drifting, tugging his skin softly along his shaft. ( _Both --_ )

“The courier hides them all back in his coat.  As undeliverable.  And now the man waits impatiently for the next empty envelope, because he _knows_.  And this time he’s going to show the courier --”

“Mmhmmm,” Sherlock interrupts, reaching for John.

“But, there’s more -- hmmm, love, yeah.  Good.  And he wants to take him and -- ahh -- what do you -- need, beautiful?“

“We won’t, there.  Won’t have each other."

“Hmm?  Ahh -- yeah, touch me -- that’s -- fff -- won’t wha --”

“In Vilnius.”

“Won’t -- hmmm -- no?”

“Can’t at all.”

“At all?”

“No.”

“Why, love?”

“Cover.  Told you.  No sign of involvement,” Sherlock says, holding John’s eyes and licking a drop of what he has on his finger, before pulling John’s velvety, heavy present off his hand; his heart is pounding even harder as he sets it with a metallic clink on his bedside table; his mouth has started to water around the salty, musky taste on his tongue. 

His cock left in want of the pressure of Sherlock’s fist, John says, “’Kay.  So we’ll -- next time we’re.  I’ll miss this.  Your skin.”

Sherlock is tracing John’s nipple and the hairs near it with his fingers, much as he had in Manchester a few days before.  “I’ll submerge, and starve,” he murmurs.

“That’s beautiful, love.”  John leans over and places his inky lapis ring near Sherlock’s by the lamp and takes his friend’s hand off his chest, kissing the palm.  He climbs over his friend and leans his erection between Sherlock’s legs, brushing at him, prodding his thighs open a bit more and smiling down over him.  “And you.  Look at you. ” 

“Together -- yes.  Like that.  Mmmmm --“ Sherlock pulls John’s face down to his and sucks at John’s lips, threading his fingers through the grayer tufts at his ears, which he loves; the passion behind what he is trying to put into his kisses counters a rhythm that is all John’s now, hard and very slow; John’s arse -- is in Sherlock’s other hand, where he lets the flex of it burn into his mind -- John, making love; his thrusts are focused, rutting against Sherlock’s cock in his hand; they are both wet and John rolls a thumb over them; Sherlock’s mind is blank and white, hissing with silence and his own blood pressure, and he closes his eyes, still holding John tightly.  John has turned his head aside to breathe; his knees are shaking with the rush of blood and heat in his body; he feels Sherlock start to push back, grasp at his arse with both of his long hands to pull him closer, moaning into their kisses (John has clamped his mouth over Sherlock’s and every stroke now replies to a sound: they are successively shorter, louder, lower, more and more word-like until Sherlock turns his head away, grinding his teeth, “hhh -- hnnngh -- my John -- my -- hnnnnngh --“)

“Jesus, ahhh -- you -- so -- God, you, so good, ahhhh, yeah --“ John’s head is racing with a thousand praises, impulses, shouts -- and his nerves, so strung and drawn out, give, throb and hum all over with release -- “Fff -- _God -- Sher_ \-- my -- love, you -- _ahhh_!  Yeah, oh yeah -- _ahhhhh_ \-- ahh -- ah -- Sher -- _hmmm_ , Sherlock, beautiful, beautiful one, oh you --”

Sherlock opens his eyes and arches his back; he is _smiling_ , mouth fallen open, his neck flushed, working his hips up into John’s tighter movements now, watching his friend bite at his lips, groaning, sweating, rubbing bursts of warm come over _him_ , slicking _him_ \-- _beautiful man, loves me -- loves_ \-- _me_ \-- he clenches his teeth and comes against the last throbs of John’s orgasm, his own body writhing and following every pulse into John’s hand.  Soon his breath is breaking up into something close to laughter; John stares at him, smiling back -- glowing; his eyes are dark and wet; their cocks, hot and slippery in his grip, drip over Sherlock’s beautiful stomach ( _because it is, so gorgeous, gorgeous creature, my phoenix, mine_ ).

“Jesus.  Brilliant.  You.  Oh, God, you should see,” John sighs.  “You.  Are amazing, I love you so much.”

Sherlock is shaking with irrepressible snickering and is close to tears, but there is no sadness in it.  “I love you with all my heart,” he says, letting his head loll away from John’s gaze.  

“That’s a hell of a lot, beautiful.”

“Thank you.”  _That you know, and want it._

John stands up to go clean off his hands.  The friends decide to have a hot bath together; the flight to Vilnius leaves at 7:15 the next morning from Luton and the soak is calming.


	23. Flighty

Sherlock is about to toss three antihistamines into his open mouth when John enters the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“Told you.  Absolutely _no pills!_   Your stomach will burn like _hell, forget it_ ,” John snaps, intercepting Sherlock over the sink; it is no casual, finger-shaking suggestion, but a hair-raising order.  “Put those _down_.”

Sherlock doesn’t.  At first.  “This is the nominal amount,” he shrugs, sipping from his water glass.

“Hands.”  John presents a pair of soft-knit elastics with plastic acupressure dots attached on the insides, which he explains he plans to fit onto his friend’s pale wrists, at watch-height.  “Good for morning sickness, as well, apparently, I got a pair for Kadi and she says they help when she first gets out of bed, when it’s --”

“Don’t be _absurd_.” Sherlock jerks his hands away.

“And you can’t take them off until I say, in Lithuania.  Right.  If you get sick, it’s --” John hesitates.  _On me?  Shouldn’t tempt fate._ “-- Uh, my fault.”

“Mmmphthh.” Sherlock turns away.

“One of my colleagues uses them when he goes on roller-coasters with his kids.  Sherlock.  It’s an _experiment_.  Right?  It can be an experiment.”

“As if that argument is _irresistible_.  To _me_.  Please,” Sherlock mutters, mostly to wind John up. 

“Your response to nausea-blocking acupressure points on your body.  For alertness, damn it, you’re not taking pills like those. _You’re treating an ulcer_.”  John is uptight -- with nostrils already flaring, prepared to argue to the point of physical intervention.  “By the way.   _Sailors_ sometimes wear these, love,” John explains, stabbing his finger in the air, straight at Sherlock’s heart ( _uff_ ).  “During storms so they can work.”

 _Storms.  Nnngh._   _That_ argument is decisive.  And Sherlock _does_ know what he can achieve using acupressure, in fact; he is enough-versed in its employment to respect it (in headache relief as well as in seducing John and stimulating blood flow to the groin).  He grumbles a bit more and puts out his hands. 

Visions of a sandy-haired, wiry sailor with eyes like the Mediterranean ( _and successful acupressure_ ) dance in Sherlock’s head during the early-dawn cab and shuttle rides to the airport, though the bands themselves, settled snugly against flexor tendons at his wrists, are driving him mad.  He notes that the shuttle, a nearly-empty mini-coach reeking of aging vinyl, ( _female_ ) perspiration and butter biscuits with a dreadfully soft suspension, is far less nauseating than expected.  When they are halfway to Luton, John puts his fingers up Sherlock’s sleeve to check he’s still got the bands on, lingeringly though, before petting his friend’s knuckles a bit.  Sherlock feels that John is absently rubbing his now-bare ring finger, before letting go and crossing his arms tightly over his chest. (Just under John’s sensibly layered clothes, near the spot his right thumb is resting, Sherlock knows there is a fresh love bite -- he’d asked for one at just after four that morning; choosing a place for it had been _very_ pleasant). 

John is presently staring out the window at the wet roads, eyebrows slightly raised, lips parted and moving almost unnoticeably.  _Reviewing French phrases.  Mmm, John._

 _Mais j'aime mieux... Je déteste...j'adore...hmmmm, your fingers -- Tu me fais -- b -- how did that go damn it, fais-moi une branlette, mon --_ )*.  John sighs, a puff that steams the window near his mouth.

“The French.  What is it?” Sherlock asks, dropping his voice.

“Wh - at?”  _Bloody mind reader._   “Heh.  _Tu me fais bander, fais-moi une bra--nlette, oui_.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash, a mixture of jealousy and fascination too sudden to hide.  John snorts and glances out the window again.  “It was in a film.  What.”

__________________

* French texts:

_\- I prefer...I dislike...I love...you are giving...jerk me off, my --_

_\- You’re giving me a hard-on, jerk me off a little, yes._

***

Sherlock’s breathing is sparse and shallow as the plane taxis and halts, idling noisily as crew signals ding repeatedly over their heads.  _Fifteen percent fewer fatalities due to disasters in the take-off phases than in landing phases.  Tell him?_

“Bird ingestion,” Sherlock whispers. _"_ Doesn’t take many.  And altitude reading errors, mistranslations in the tower, _shockingly common_.  I worked undercover at Heathrow, you know.  _Baggage_.  You’d not believe what I saw.  The people, John.  Their.  Things!  _Nnngh._ ”

His soldier is unflappable, apparently, _not that flapping of any kind would keep the blasted machine aloft_ \--  “Hmmm, love, you know,” John whispers in Sherlock’s ear, blatantly adjusting himself with a squirm in his seat. 

_Aroused?  Here?  Madness.  Were there a suicide insurance plot the frustrated eldest son of an immigrant cobbler in aisle 6, seat D would be a viable culprit.  If I could get a better look at his wallet --_

“That feeling when we take off, hit the first cloud?  That’s kissing you, after work, every time.  Feels bloody hot, take-offs.   _Hmmm, ah yeah_ ,” John groans softly, as the plane lifts and the landing gear creaks and pounds into the bowels of the plane.  

“If I am _this_ gut-churning to you, John, after _work_ \--” Sherlock hisses, trying not to bite through his own tongue as the plane howls upward. _(Cargo door latch fatigue!)_

“Easy, beautiful,” John’s warm breath hits Sherlock’s ear again.  “We go down, we can’t do anything about it.  Enough, rest your eyes a little.  They’re working, see?  You’re not sick.”

True:  Sherlock doesn’t _vomit like a cat which has been force-fed a spoonful of hydraulic brake fluid like the Earl’s arthritic Siamese in Bloomsbury last April_ , as he explains in a longer, disjointed stream-of-consciousness narrative.  

In the end, Sherlock’s first substance-free airplane flight since early childhood is only slightly longer than a train-ride north to Manchester, and while not enjoyable in the least (to him), it is mercifully uneventful.  John doesn’t count the steward who glances at everyone’s belts, raising an eyebrow at the proximity of John’s protective hand and Sherlock’s pale palm.  _You wish_ , John smirks to himself, and cups his hand over Sherlock’s for a last affirming squeeze as the plane banks sharply and begins its steady descent over patchy Lithuanian farmlands surrounded by puffy copses of bare deciduous trees and pines.  John thinks it is absolutely stunning.  “Look at all that,” he whispers, forcing himself to yawn.  Sherlock freezes in his seat ( _corrosion in the actuator -- enough that one bolt --_ ).

***

The arrivals hall is surprisingly ornate, unlike any John has seen before.  Sherlock’s eyes are flying over the faces and forms of the people around them and he doesn’t seem to care that the building is a capsule of contrasts, with pillars and stylised, socialist-realist figures (lit by chandelier fixtures that would be more suited to a fine restaurant) alongside stark, anonymous glass terminal areas and duty-free shops which aside from their displays with a few local alcohols and chocolates hardly differ from those in other parts of the Schengen zone.  John already thinks it’s going to be worth writing something about, even if it never goes online for others’ eyes.     

The two friends have scarcely crossed the terminal hall and Sherlock starts digging the pressure bands from his wrists.  John barks to the effect of _keep them on_ ; Sherlock ignores him with an eye-roll.  “Too tight.  Enough,” he growls, yanking them off defiantly -- and then shutting his mouth and eyes with a whine.  John shakes his head and swears as Sherlock slumps into the nearest metal seat and swallows back waves of nausea. 

“It actually _does work_ , not a placebo effect, so we’ve established that, hm?"

"Mm."

" _Put them back on before you lose it on the damned floor_ ,” John tells him.  “So, yeah.  Got everything with you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, flashing a brief but warm smile up at him. 

“Right.”  As unnatural as it now feels, John keeps a foot of space between them at the shoulder.  They emerge from the building into frosty, dry morning air; there are small deposits of compacted, filthy snow between the drop-off and coach lanes; it is too cold for melt-off and it has gradually evaporated and eroded into soft, slippery shapes; the hairs in John’s nose tickle as they ice up on the intake of every breath.  They are the only people outdoors without hats, he notices, and unzips his bag to dig out a woolen cap and shoves a pair of leather gloves onto his hands.  “Look for a bus, or?”

“Ah,” Sherlock grunts, and walks toward a rather unremarkable man (whom John had completely overlooked), in a dark puffed coat, non-descript combat-type or cargo trousers, and a dark blue beanie.  “ _Witam, Panie Wilku_.”

“ _Dzie_ _ń_ \-- Mr. Holmes, yes?  Good morning, good morning,” he says, nodding to John, while flexing his gloved fingers in the cold.  “Cold, yes.  Flight good?”

“Smooth.  John Watson,” Sherlock says, “Roman Wilk.”

Roman removes his glove to shake hands; John does the same.  Roman doesn’t venture eye contact nor does he smile, and neither does John.  They mumble greetings and shuffle their feet, studying the texture of the pavement and the ash and bits of unidentifiable rubbish drifting over it in a cutting breeze.  Roman soon clears his sinuses and spits, and the air between them fills with puffs and streams of breath that further stand in for conversation.  John’s thighs are already prickling and aching from the cold in his jeans, to say nothing of his knees.  _Je - sus_.  Sherlock is undoubtedly even colder but there will be no brunch in bed to warm him.  Them.  _Submerge and bloody well starve.  Right_.  John wouldn’t mind another round of breakfast about now, either. 

“You want?” Roman takes out a packet of cigarettes (probably a Lithuanian brand) and taps out three; John shakes his head in refusal and steps back, glancing around as he does at a few nearby adverts on posts.  Initial conclusions:  he will not be able to recognise or guess at the meanings of many words in Lithuanian, if any; many words end in ‘s’ and have accent marks, and that is about all he can say.  He takes to watching Sherlock in clouds of steam and smoke.  He is unearthly and wild in that atmosphere, paler than usual ( _still nauseated?_ ), his eyes the steely colour of many things near them, now; John turns his gaze quickly to Roman Wilk, who suddenly blasts cigarette smoke from his nostrils like a dragon and remarks in his strongly accented English that the exchange rate at the airport is poor and to wait, that they won’t need much anyhow; John finds a complete lack of material for deduction in the appearance of the man.  He focuses once again on the inadequacy of his own clothes to hold in body warmth and vows to ask later on where to get some sort of underclothes.  Standing still is impossible, like this; moreover, the in-flight coffee has just sent his renal system into crisis mode and he needs to take an increasingly urgent leak.   _Damn._  

The other men still have two inches to smoke down from what he can tell, so John drops his bag on the ground at his friend’s feet and strides back into the terminal building behind them.  The men’s toilets are near a large display window of amber and silver objects; he is in just as much of a hurried march when he comes back out but stops by that window to look at a few pieces of the petrified resin with insects trapped inside and other curious inclusions like pine needles or bubbles. His eye falls on a tiny, dark-honey-toned, carved amber phoenix bird with silver wings, all held aloft on a winding silver tail.  There’s no time to ask about it though it is lovely work and nothing he’d ever see in England, certainly.   _I have a real one though, if he hasn’t frozen to the pavement already._ He’d try to photograph the little bird if Sherlock had let him bring his mobile along on this trip; as it is, they have _gone analogue_. Judging by the people walking around him, they are the only two practicing that particular form of asceticism.  

The re-emergence into that chill of a morning hits his lungs like a gas. 

“We go,” Roman mumbles and leads them to the parking area where he unlocks an aged but well-maintained silver Audi and motions for them to get in while he pays the parking ticket at a bulky electronic ‘ _automat_ ’.

Sherlock is completely on alert, now; John has half-managed to forget how edgy and cold the man can become; he hasn’t seen that sort of face in months.  Not since October, in -- Vienna. John has no idea what lies ahead for them both. There must be something more in all of this, indeed, as Sherlock had suggested during their walk in Regent’s Park, a few days before.  _Hmmm._   John clenches his hands into fists and growls a little with impatience; he is getting a familiar quivering sensation around his heart.  Sherlock shakes his head, once, though in response to what John cannot discern.  He wipes off the foggy car window with his sleeve, in time to see Roman loping their way.  He clears his throat and watches Roman spit again before he climbs back into the car.

Sherlock can feel how much John enjoys Roman's driving skills; they weave through traffic effortlessly at high speeds (Roman brakes only for red lights and accelerates like mad on ambers) until the buildings out the windows become lower and finer; soon they appear to have entered the historic area of town.  John's mouth drops open in an appreciative 'o', which he tries to hide in a yawn; his ears are still popping.  The old city is lovely, indeed, and he can't wait to get out and have a look at it.


	24. A sweetener

Alex had got a scare.  Not that he wants to discuss it.

While walking down his very own Great Peter Street, having just left his building for a jaunt to the Thames and back, a dark silver limousine with tinted windows had slowed at his side; a well-dressed gentleman had asked him to quietly enter the car.  At the request of Mycroft Holmes.  In this way Alex had discovered he was being invited for more of the delectable (2,500-quid-per-kilo) Chinese oolong with Sherlock’s daunting brother.

He is now seated across from Mycroft at the man’s desk, his legs crossed at the knee; he has been there for an hour and has hardly had occasion to utter a word as the elder Holmes talks incessantly.  Alex has something on his mind, however, and broaches the subject once he has set aside his cup.

“Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes.”

“When we met at the _Glen Burns_ you asked me a question regarding the suitability of John Watson, pertaining to his relationship with Sherlock,” Alex says.

“And?” Mycroft asks airily.

“Do you consider my perspective to be of importance?” Alex asks, folding his hands in his lap.

“Naturally.”

“In fact, I feel strongly that John is suitable, I have felt this way since I first understood your brother’s feelings for Doctor Watson, namely in the first hour of our acquaintance.  He genuinely loves your brother and I should not want anything or anyone to interfere with his and Sherlock’s happiness,” Alex declares.

Mycroft glances down at his fingernails.  The silence is horrendous to Alex, who would gladly rush out of the room -- impossible, and ridiculous, but far more in keeping with what his primal self wants to do, instead of sitting primly as he is, like a penitent serf who has stolen a turnip.  Finally, Mycroft opens his mouth.  “How fortunate, Alexander, that we are in agreement on that.”

Alex scarcely manages to suppress a yawn; he hasn’t been breathing deeply enough.  “I am to understand that this has been a brief survey of my intentions toward your brother and John Watson.”

“In part, it has.  Are you unwell?”

“I’ll soon be on my way,” Alex replies.

“Shall I call for assistance?” Mycroft inquires, brows raised.

“Lord, no,” Alex blurts.

“I said, you may go.  Meaning you may also stay.”

“You don’t wish it.”

“Your assumption.  You’ll stay, we aren’t finished.”

“No, we aren’t.  May I take this opportunity to say that my intentions toward you were not unambiguous,” Alex says, and adds, “either.”

At that last bit, Mycroft has narrowed his eyes.  “You might explain.”

“I wanted to know better _who_ I was refusing to help.  Because I was refusing to help.”

Mycroft smiles tightly.  “And you believe you’ve succeeded in gaining the knowledge you needed.”

Alex raises his head and returns the smile.  “No.  I believe I have failed utterly.”

Mycroft is unable to pick that apart to his own satisfaction.  “I see.”

“Thank you for tea, sir, your knowledge of foreign affairs is dizzying.  Quite absorbing.” Alex seems as determined to wrap up their chat and leave as Mycroft is to keep him in his seat.

“Useful, to some.  And you might call me Mycroft.”

“Thank you.  I cannot relate to many of these subjects well enough to enter into discussion with you, so I feel I'll bore you.”

“You’re merely peckish.”

“Excuse me, sir -- eh -- Mycroft -- ?”

“You’re peckish, the position of your left hand indicates that.”

“Does it really?” Alex smiles a bit and laughs doubtfully.  “I thought it was the gurgling in my stomach that gave it away.”

“No, _that_ is due to your intolerance of the anticoagulant you’ve been prescribed.”

“As I said earlier, dizzying?  You’re quite right,” Alex quips, wondering what is coming next.

“Biscuits, lime-iced, from a certain Flemish confectioner’s in Brussels,” Mycroft says, leaning over and removing a small box from a desk drawer at his right.

“To which imminent change in politics could _Flemish biscuits_ pertain?” Alex asks. 

“I’ll ring for plates, one moment,” Mycroft replies, tapping a message into what looks like an older pager.  “You habitually think in German, today is no exception.” 

“Mycroft, should a man even leave his flat?” Alex retorts.

“No.  You won’t have time.  You see,  a certain Ministerial Department requires a series of fifteen graphics to ornament a room of an exhibition pavilion in Beijing on the history of England’s water claiming and hydrology research projects, your name came to mind.  A minor affair, nine and a half million visitors expected.”

“I’d hoped, in fact, to return to work in two weeks, for Dr. Lindberg --“

“That may well be.  Yet, a development has come to light which may put certain plans of yours in question," Mycroft informs Alex.

“Sorry, I feel quite strong enough to --“ Alex remarks, sitting up in his chair defensively.

“Which version of events will be more palatable to you, Alexander?” Mycroft asks, pupils contracted into pinpricks.  “The one in which I inform you that Lindberg has turned his attentions to another, younger member of his staff, of inferior talents though less indefinite affections, or the one where you slowly discover it for yourself after having signed a work agreement at Lindberg’s firm which obliges you on a full-time basis to watch it happening through the glass walls in his offices?”

“How can you _know_ this?” Alex asks, his own eyes glittering and reddening as though pricked through.  To his own horror, he realises he is not surprised to hear these facts at all.  Jens has sent sporadic texts and little more since he’d come home; it is absolutely humiliating.

“Not a difficult deduction,” Mycroft continues.  “A word came my way in the form of an invitation from a certain museum to the opening of an exhibit I shall not attend, the rest a painfully obvious chain of acquaintances, incidents, photographs and a recent radio interview, none of which are worth mentioning now but lead nevertheless to a interior designer of Catalan descent by the name of _Horatio Ray,_ known in several clubs for his dancing skills as ‘the Hor’ or ‘Hor-Ray’.  Yes, known to you, I see.”

Alex chokes on tears, which he could not dam back for any treasure in the world.  An assistant knocks; Alex yanks his reading glasses from his jacket pocket and polishes them against his shirt, head bent; a woman enters the room and sets two porcelain plates on Mycroft’s desk.  Alex catches a glimpse of her ankles and heels as she leaves.

“Now.  The pavilion in Beijing will be ornamented with colourful banding suggestive of geological layers in domestic clays and chalks.  A competition has been open for four months and the submissions are below par, the same names that have won previous tenders for public artwork and monuments, in a word -- _dull_ , in fact a pattern had emerged in the jury’s actions suggestive of corruption, which has since been eliminated, a shadow sponsor whose nationality I cannot reveal is facing eight years of incarceration on unrelated charges, meaning the floor is open.  Now, for the Chinese event we shall endeavour to show much fresher work, since our intelligence indicates that the French, Portuguese and Italian pavilions -- are you listening carefully?  Others are thinking similarly, that gestures of accord on certain environmental issues should be made at _all possible_ junctures.  An international tender for the building of an Arctic -- you might stop your _weeping_ , nothing whatsoever can be helped by it and it is _distracting_.  Water policy is one such delicate area where we might forge relations with the Chinese due to an upcoming international tender -- _fine_ , since you are utterly unreasonable, I will be brief.  This is the application procedure,” Mycroft says, holding a paper form and a brown folder toward Alex.  “Take these.  You will create a cutaway view of a proposed interior on the basis of the preliminary architectonic plans in this folder, which are highly sensitive, do not show or mention them to anyone, you will return them to me immediately upon completion, my driver will give you a number.  Use watercolour and ink.   The individual pieces of artwork needn’t be detailed, naturally, it is merely a portrayal of their size and location in the pavilion, as you see them.  Include one sketch of the fifteen to append to the design as an example.  You have five days.  A proper biscuit is far superior to any bromide I could offer you on the inexorableness of human heartbreak, Alexander.  Take one.”

“And when is Sherlock coming back?” Alex sniffs and shudders as a tear splashes onto the folder in his lap.

“He and John are abroad for the time being on business.”

***

John and Sherlock are staying on a narrow side street in Old Vilnius which has tall, blind walls and gated courtyards along its entire length and exits onto a main pedestrian boulevard with tourist-oriented gift shops and restaurants. At that end of their street, there are ceramic teapots set into the side of a cafe building -- a local photo spot.  It is easy to find the street because of them, at least, thinks John.  At the other end of their street, Roman explains, there is a small old church and a monument to a Polish poet that he is enthusiastic about showing to them both later on.  It is the only thing he has shown any emotion over whatsoever; Sherlock dockets it.  The detective is initially displeased to have been dropped into a touristy place but reasons silently that the sound of a foreign voice (John’s) will be less marked within these few blocks than anywhere else in the country.  The apartment Roman is staying in is sub-hired to him by a British worker named Lucas Bradstrough, who is unavailable when they arrive (docketed).  Roman’s flat is on the second floor facing the centre of a very old, cobbled courtyard with containers of frozen-over silk flowers on all sides; Sherlock counts that there are eleven separate flats all using copies of the same large gate key.  There are four cats immediately visible, one of which has a silly black moustache-like mark under his nose and insists on being petted before allowing them closer to the door.  Sherlock obliges, gaining the approval of no fewer than three elderly ladies who are peeking out from windows overhead.  He winks at the one furthest away, with the most colourful headscarf.  She darts away from the window like a shot. 

Roman has two microscopic bedrooms, one of which is his office (where Sherlock will stay on a small fold-out sofa) and the other a spare with stacks of cartons in a corner, where John will sleep; each of them is hardly large enough for a single bed and desk; clothing and personal possessions are kept in wardrobes in the living area, by the front door.  Sherlock’s eyes are moving wildly about them, taking in all the bizarre glitches in the construction.  He has already noted that a switch in the kitchen turns on a ventilator in the bathroom which exits back into the same vent as the cooker; the ceilings are tall but the interior of the place is poorly finished and there is not a single stick of matching furniture or decor; Sherlock and John both think of John’s old flat; in many ways, it shares common blood:  the building itself has ancient walls that are as thick as two rows of cinder blocks yet the partitions in the place appear to have been hastily erected in drywall and wired according to abstract principles.  One must walk through one bedroom to reach the office, neither of which have lights.  The single overhead light fixture is a hideous _crystal_ number that Sherlock exhales impatiently beneath, nearly making John snort rudely.  The bathroom consists of a jet black tiled shower (a hole in the floor, with a curtain fluttering nearby to suggest it might prevent water from pouring into the toilet -- which is crammed in so close that one could lean out and vomit comfortably while showering ( _or_ \--) John puts his imagination to rest as Roman sighs and insists politely that he will sleep in an armchair which also folds out into a foam bed, in the makeshift living area he has made of a tiny kitchen and dining nook.  “I make breakfast.  I know, place is crazy.  Alcoholic build this and other alcoholic make decorating.  I think.  But warm, that is important.”

True enough.  The place is well-heated by massive Russian iron heaters beneath the windows, which in appearance remind John of whale ribs.  John can handle the cramped conditions for a spell as long as it’s warm, he decides, and smiles hesitantly. 

Sherlock, at some point, had wandered back to the office area, perhaps to unpack.

“I make sandwich and tea.  You want?” Roman asks John, as he fills a metal kettle and lights a gas burner beneath it with a long, wand-like lighter.

“Yeah, sure.  Help you?”

“No, no.”

“No problem, are you sure?”  John has already spied a jar of dark, granulated pine honeydew near the stove.  He leans over reaches for it.  “Can we use this?”

“Of course, it is best kind.  _Gryczany_ , from pine tree.  Healthy for heart.”

John smiles to himself and opens the jar and sticks his nose in.  _Yup_.  Sure enough -- like wet goat wool.  _Jesus, like the one from Norfolk.  Hmmm._ “Nice,” he mumbles.  Roman nods and sets about making a pile of open-faced bacon and mayo sandwiches on heavy, sweet pumpernickel-type bread with slices of pale tomatoes and stringy sauerkraut and generous amounts of black pepper.  Once Roman has brewed some loose-leaf black tea in a tall glass pot with a strainer, John dollops pine honey into a large mug for Sherlock and pours the tea over it, stirring meditatively.  The smell is potent and heavy.   _Lick this from your collarbone.  Around each nipple, hmm, bite it off, all off you.  Work it down your cock and suck it up the sides until you can’t.  Lick you out and  fuck you slow and deep, the way you like it and eat honey off your lips, Sherlock, hmmm, love you --_ John suddenly stops stirring.  _Yeah, just bloody drifted off, there_.  The honey isn’t entirely dissolved, though, so John’s reverie looks to have gone unnoticed by the Pole, who is humming something off-key while he pulls several stoneware-type gray plates from a metal dish rack and arranges them on the tiny, unstable table nearby.

When John calls his friend to the kitchen for a spot of breakfast, Sherlock (dressed in a chunky woolen gray jumper and off-label black corduroy trousers, somehow already blending in with the city) immediately scoops up the mug in a pale hand and brings it to his nose; he shoots a look at John, whose ears are bright pink as he determinedly blows the steam off his own cup and curls a lip over it.  Sherlock turns away quickly to find a more suitable wooden chair and bring it into the kitchen. 

He devours three sandwiches to John’s four. 


	25. The mapmaker

Roman seems to know Sherlock, at least by second hand means.  John cannot discern:  aside from one reference to the case of the strangled Pole from Warsaw (from some months before), there are no other hints of how they’d heard of one another to begin with.  Once they’ve settled in to the flat a bit, Sherlock announces he has decided to pay ‘Luke’ - Roman’s supervisor -- a surprise visit at his office, and John is to understand that he intends to spend the rest of the day there, working, presumably on something associated with the pen drive from Mycroft, though that is not stated.  Roman immediately looks uncomfortable, which John finds interesting, but can take no further. 

Sherlock doesn’t give the moment much of a chance to develop before he leaps up and smiles falsely, rubbing his hands and nearly chirping, “Roman.  Show John some of the sights nearby, you mentioned a statue of someone or another.  You’ll drop by.”

“Sounds -- good,” John mumbles. 

Sherlock hurries off to Roman’s rooms again. 

The man nods.  “The greatest Polish poet,” he replies.  “Who was born here.  He live on this street.  You know, Vilnius was Polish city.”  He has just lit a cigarette and is biting his lips by the kitchen window, where he skillfully blows smoke out in long streams into the freezing air through a narrow gap he’s opened.

“Didn’t know that, uhm.  Where are there some -- I don’t know.  Shops.  I need something warmer.”

“Okay, you take mine.  No buy, it’s without sense.  I have,” Roman says, waving his hand and puffing out the window again.  He sets his smouldering cigarette down on the edge of a small, cracked saucer and strides over to a tall cupboard near the front door.  “This.  And this,” he says, pulling a pair of woolen leggings and a heavy polar-tec-type jumper.  “You want?  For feet?” Roman asks.  “We can find on street market some.”

 _Find what.  Feet?_ John sighs.  Roman’s English is giving him a brain-ache.  The bloke is nearly as tall as Sherlock, and stockier (at this point John finally connects the dots that Sherlock is wearing _Roman’s_ clothes) but John takes the things gladly, as a welcome alternative to -- _frozen bollocks_.

Sherlock reappears and flies out of the flat without a word.  As he goes, John remembers with a jolt to the chest that they don’t have phones, nor does he have any idea who the hell this “Luke” is.  He looks at Roman again.  _Drop by later, where?  And if you can’t take me there, where the fuck._ “Right,” John says, and wanders off to dress.

***

The town is stunning.  The historic area is small, a jewel of a place, and a jumble of architectural styles with meandering, narrow streets. Many bear signs of a far more heterogeneous cultural and religious mix than John sees around him on the pavements.  He has rarely seen so many churches in such a small area.  Roman talks continually about political history, mainly the Grand Polish-Lithuanian Duchy and what the Soviets had done more recently to hide the heritage of Lithuanians and Poles and other European nations who’d been sold out by Roosevelt and Churchill in Tehran and Yalta.  To a British army man and enthusiast of twentieth-century history, it is a rather disturbing and fascinating account.  The conversation drifts to current complications over Russian aggression and England’s unclear economic ties and what Roman sees as its wavering stance.  John mentions that he’d served.

“You were on war?” Roman asks.  “I think this when I see you, yes.”

John grunts.

“What war?”

“Afghanistan.”

“I was in Iraq.  But civil,” Roman says, shuffling his feet as he stands in front of a distinct, pink cathedral with a golden crown atop it, and smokes.

“Civilian?” John asks.

“Yes, I’m engineer.  Civilian and civil engineer.  I was near Basra.” 

“What the hell were you doing there?”

“Building new road system.  Rebuild it.  And it destroy after half year.  All destroy.  Blown up and that’s it.  Because rebuild by alli-ants.”

“Alliance.” 

“Yes.  You know.  Very good road, but it is build by enemy side, so.  Terrorist fight each other and destroy own country too, you know.  I could go again, good money, but.  No sense.”

“Hmm.  Yeah.”

“Want spice beer, specialty from Vilnius?”

“Yeah.”

***

John and Roman enjoy steaming cups of mulled beer out in the open air as they walk through some of the park squares and up a hill with a small, very picturesque watch tower made of red brick.  The view down over a large square, with a free-standing bell tower and neoclassical church, is impressive. 

“We go to Luke’s office after one more beer.  Yes?” Roman says.

“Right.”

Several bells have started chiming nearby.  “You have phone?” Roman asks.  He is starting to look nervous again.

“No,” John replies, checking his watch against the hour struck by the churches.

“Good.”

John glances up.  “What.” 

“They.  You know.  Hear in phones.  You please listen.  There is problem.” Roman can’t seem to make eye contact.

“What.” 

“Because, you are from army, you watch back for Sherlock, you are here to secure him, yes?”

“Secure?” John asks.

“You are guard for him.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Yes.  So I tell you what is Luke.”

John straightens.  “Yeah.”

“I send all white noise for Luke and write all algorithms, yes?  You know.”

John _doesn’t know, anything_.  That fact hits like a punch to the head.  _Fuck, intelligence worker, coding?  You?_   “No.  Okay.  And?”  John turns and stares Roman down, warningly.  _Don’t fuck with me._

Roman looks away.  “One day man was come to him and show him Russian _pistolet_ PSS.  I saw.  He put it on desk to show.”

“A pistol?” John coughs and glances around them.

“Yes.  Pistol.  You _know_ what shit has PSS pistol.”

“Small and silent?  Used to be KGB.  But.”

“So Luke.  He doesn’t say what it is.  Who is this man.  I listen to them talk about bullshit, he think I don’t understand.  And then I watch and check.  You know.  In our algorithms and codes.  You know?  We send it and one half from one percent is good and the other ninety-nine and half is to use their energy for nothing.”

“You write -- all the codes.”

Roman looks around; when a woman with two children has passed out of earshot, he continues.  “Yes.  I am freelance.  But listen.  But I see something is for other side.  They know what half from one percent is good intelligence and now they use some from my algorithms -- from me -- my work -- to send bullshit back to England.  I find one.  Luke is selling my work I make for him.  They encrypt with my work but I don’t know which one they will use, you know.  Do you see?  I go crazy, John.  He can say I am traitor.  Okay, you don’t believe.  But you will guard.”

“Sure I will.”

John is now watching every move his companion makes and following every dart of his eyes.  The man looks deeply worried just under a tightly stretched, forbearing exterior.  He seems to be avoiding showing up at Luke’s office.  John sincerely hopes the Pole intends to lead him there, though, and that this isn’t a trick.  He resolves to pay attention carefully to the location.  He’s already got turned around in the old city and needs to focus.  The beer isn’t helping.  _Shit._

He decides he will feel a hell of a lot better when he’s in the same room with Sherlock again.    

***

 _Monitoring and isolation in turn.  No impulse control, name-calling.  Eye-rolling, open derision._ John is ticking off boxes in his head from a training seminar on treating victims of bullying who have stress disorder symptoms.  He can usually spot those factors a mile away, and having some of of them right under his nose, like this, is very uncomfortable.  He is watching Luke.   _Rude, self-centred speech, interruption.  Gossip.  Humiliation, use of surprise.  Sabotaging time and resources._ John sits off to the side with his hands folded; Sherlock informs him in passing that Roman had learned to write computer programs on paper and didn’t touch a real computer until he was in his early twenties, and even then, it had been the only one in an entire institute. 

Roman doesn’t hear a word of this praise; Luke has sent him to make tea for them all while he chats with Sherlock; now, he guffaws at the ‘third world’ conditions of Eastern European universities, including their intellectual capital.  “Fucking idiot,” Luke remarks.  “Doesn’t understand half what you say, and the half he understands he can’t tell you, so I have a tea-tray boy, that’s what brother Gov sent on, Holmes.  So look at this.  I say we have a -- wait, he’s -- what.”  Luke nods at John.   _Are you fucking kidding me?_  John thinks.  _You work for MI6?_   _Roman was in fucking Basra, an engineer, he’s got his pride.  And looks like he’s going to shit himself -- what does this plonker have on him.  What the fuck is going on, and where is Sherlock in this.  What does he know._

“I’m on my way out,” John replies.

Sherlock is ignoring him completely.  John focuses on blowing them all off and stands up when Roman returns with a tray of tea cups.  He snags one that is sliding over dangerously and gingerly sets it in front of the other two men on Luke’s desk. 

“Someone with reflexes,” Luke growls and glares up at Roman.

***

The day is short and total darkness comes by late afternoon.  Sherlock comes back to Roman’s flat and occupies a chair, folding his hands under his chin and letting his eyes drop shut as though he’d never been anywhere, at all.  The lack of acknowledgment is marked, thinks John, and vows to keep watching.  Roman takes them both for a simple supper at a small restaurant with local food; the cutlets, bread and dumplings are fantastic and taste homemade; John notes that Sherlock is picking his food apart with analytical interest, hopefully for purposes of replication at Baker Street.  John and Roman talk about the influence of weather conditions on European diets, John gives his professional thoughts, and Sherlock pretends to listen. 

If Roman is waiting for remarks about his work, or relieved that none have been made, John can’t see it on the man at all.

Later, Roman and Sherlock close themselves in Roman’s office at the flat and John drinks tea in the kitchen, munches on a piece of cracker bread with unbelievably fresh curd cheese, and reads the rest of a book he’d brought along.  Roman comes out and informs him that Sherlock has turned in, and asks if John wants to eat again -- a Slavic-style hint to evacuate from the room, taken.  The lack of contact with Sherlock before bed feels like a light bruise to John; it pisses him off that he already feels so damned needy ( _we just got here this morning, damn it_ ) and pushes it aside.  By the time he washes up, changes for bed and stretches out on the squeaky mattress, he is restless and irritable, nowhere near sleep.  He swears quietly and sighs into the darkness.

“ _Good evening, John_ ,” he hears.

He starts and looks around, which is pointless -- it is pitch black in his tiny, windowless  room.  Sherlock’s clear whisper is near his head, though, coming from a round plastic electrical socket in the wall; it appears there is another on Sherlock’s side.  He grins and leans over as the bed makes the _squee_ of a stuck rodent.  “Hi, love,” John whispers back.

“You can’t sleep.  You’re thinking, I can hear it.”

“Can’t, no.  See me off, then?”

John hears Sherlock’s bed creak even more loudly; he springs up so that they meet in the pitch-dark doorway between their tiny rooms. 

“Here,” John whispers, sliding an arm around the inky form of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Shhh,” Sherlock murmurs against John’s lips, covering them in wet kisses as he draws John a step back into his room.

John wants to pull them both down; the wooden floor would do, though it creaks nearly as much as the beds.  _These skew-whiff partitions wouldn’t handle much force, either._   John grins.  _Bring down the whole construction in a hot wall fuck with you._  He leans into Sherlock instead, who he feels is in a long-sleeved t-shirt (his, actually, snagged from the wash basket again; it doesn’t cover his friend’s wrists) and soft trousers; John doesn’t touch anything below the waistband, determined he won’t wind them up.  He pushes his hands past those shirt hems and strokes his friend’s back.  Sherlock cups John’s head in his hands and kisses his face and forehead.  His pulse is skittering.  These are exhilarating conditions, as goodnight kisses go, to Sherlock’s mind -- pitch darkness, a foreign setting, radiators so hot one could very comfortably wander about fully naked ( _the Pole would mind_ ), a syrupy tiredness from rich food clashing with their cravings for intimacy, and a childish thrill over the proximity of Roman, who had complained of sleeping poorly.  It is very much like sneaking into someone’s -- an _officer’s_ \-- tent, though he has never had a chance to do so and verify his imaginings.  _Perhaps John has?_  The warm, moist breath behind John’s whispers is very stirring.  John has caught Sherlock’s earlobe in his lips now; he smiles audibly and snickers, letting those small sounds and exhalations _tickle_ , _absolutely purposefully_.  He skims a hand up and down Sherlock’s back and touches a small mole he seems partial to before placing a series of slow kisses along Sherlock’s neck, and a very lingering one on his lips.  “Hmm, good night.”

“No,” Sherlock whispers back, and holds him closer.  “Not yet.”

“Not going to be able to _sleep_ , if.”

“If.  If, then.”

Another kiss on the mouth, this time longer.  “St -- op,” John says (a warning but not a command) and Sherlock nods.

“That you’re here.  Good,” Sherlock whispers, somewhat incoherently.

“Love you.  Get some sleep, hmm?” 

“Mmm.  Boring.” Sherlock’s long fingers are in John’s pyjama trousers; one fingertip ( _Je - sus!_ ) traces over John’s lower spine, into the downy hairs at the base of his back.

John gulps back an invitation and growls.  “Sher -- uhm.  I’ll tell you a story, and.”  _And whatever happens we’re in our bloody rooms.  Shit._

“Okay.” (Another kiss, this time with a slip of tongue and a tight embrace afterward.)

Both men retreat to beds that moan crankily for them.  John passes a hand over his mouth and chin, yawns, and turns onto his right side, facing the wall.  _Story.  Story, story.  Hmm_.  He usually knows he’ll get to have something afterward, and occasionally _during_ stories, which is even hotter.  “Damned -- coils,” John grumbles near the socket.  “Can’t ever have sex with you abroad?” he mutters.  He hears Sherlock snort.  “A sort of rule?” John asks, a bit too loud. 

“Ah.  You want a proper _sex_ holiday?” Sherlock asks into the socket, still huffing with laughter a bit, perhaps against the pillow.

“Well, yeah.  What.  Somewhere nice, yeah.”  John smiles.

“I’ll negotiate with Mycroft,” Sherlock whispers back, and sniffs a laugh again. “In Passau there’ll be no case work.”

“Never know,” John answers.  “It’s a bloody forensics conference, odds are you’ll find one during the introduction of the key note speaker and another during the first coffee break.”

John doesn’t add _you brilliant mad creature_ , but it is there, in his tone.  Sherlock would kiss John breathless just for that remark.  That he remembers his potential.  He squeezes his eyes shut as the wail of an ambulance siren blares several streets away and (followed by two other vehicles) rumbles over the icy cobblestones; Roman grunts and turns over; soon he mumbles to himself in Polish and gets up to go to the toilet and have a smoke at the kitchen window. 

John freezes.  _Shit, not even sleeping._

“So, a story?” hisses Sherlock’s voice, again very low.

John had managed to divert his thoughts from between his legs rather well (the mention of Mycroft generally helps) but senses his efforts are about to go to hell.  He breathes a bit and composes.  “Uhm.”  John wonders if Sherlock is hoping for a continuation of the strategist-and-officer tales, but since John doesn’t have the benefit of Sherlock’s erotic artwork overhead, he leans nearer to the outlet and lets his mind drift elsewhere.  “There is a mapmaker,” he whispers.  “He is a cartographer and naturalist with an artist’s heart.  But beyond that, he is -- uhm.  Much more.  A wild spirit, independent, reckless, but rather friendless.  Because he leaves others behind, in every way.  In his brilliance, in his skill, and the isolation of his work.  So mentally and physically, he doesn’t bother with anyone else.  He lives far from town, at the edge of a wilderness.  He spends many years there on his work.  He makes maps for himself, mostly, as records, and sometimes for others.  And it suits him.”  John shifts his position and leans his arms and chin on his pillow.  “People generally leave him be, he has a sort of air that they don’t try to approach him, so when he comes to town for supplies, his self-isolation doesn’t change much at all.  He’s not bothered, though, just thinks about his land, his space, and all the borders he will draw.  Well.  One of the people he sees most often is a doctor who works at a small clinic and dispensary where he buys medicines and -- substances.”

“What kinds?” Sherlock asks.

“Just, different things.  He buys them there.  Sometimes they talk.  The doctor is fascinated by the mind of the mapmaker, the way he sees and catalogues the world, and the mapmaker comes to enjoy exchanging a word or two with the doctor.  And this cordial, sort of habit -- love, you know, Roman’s up.”

“I am aware.  I want a smoke, _too_.  Carry on, soldier.”

“Something’s seriously off.  With him and Luke, you know,” John says. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, cutting him off.  “And the mapmaker?”

“So.  He and the doctor formed a sort of a friendship.  When winter came and it started to snow, the mapmaker came in to town less frequently.  One day he ordered a larger number of compounds and the doctor prepared them and set them aside, but his friend didn’t come to pick them up.  After two more days he began to wonder why the man hadn’t shown, it didn’t feel right.  He decided to impose a little and take them to the mapmaker himself.  He was curious more than anything else about how the man lived.  He packed up the preparations and set out to the mapmaker’s place.  What he found was appalling.  The mapmaker answered the door white as a sheet, on a makeshift crutch.  He explained that he’d stepped in a small trap while surveying in the forest, and it had closed on his ankle, cracking it and leaving him no choice but to leave his equipment, return home on one foot, pry it off himself, and try to treat his own bleeding and splint it all.  He was faint, weak and in awful shape physically, and psychologically it seemed as well, so the doctor set to work on that foot, finding it swollen and showing signs of infection.  He didn’t have everything he needed so he rushed back to town and returned as fast as he could to the mapmaker’s home just before dark with more supplies, antibiotics and some food.  The mapmaker was grateful and if he weren’t in such awful pain, he said, he would find a way to thank the doctor _very_ thoroughly.  They shared a moment and they understood what’s coming without words.  The doctor gave the mapmaker a strong palliative, cleaned up and set the injured foot, which -- I should say -- was one of the hottest feet he’d ever seen --“ (Sherlock laughs at little at that.) “ -- and offered to help the mapmaker wash up, at least provisionally, in a chair at the fireside.  It was impossible to resist rubbing the other foot, just to enjoy it all for himself, once he’d washed it with a warm cloth.  So he didn’t resist.  And he started from those toes, to the ball, the arch, the heel, and back, washing them and rubbing them.  And the mapmaker didn’t mind any of it.  He suggested they might take the floor, instead, and they stretched out by the fireside, on heavy blankets, and the doctor cleaned and rubbed the mapmaker’s foot, ankle, and calves, knees, thighs.  The mapmaker pulled the doctor close and said he didn’t need to stop just yet, especially not _yet_ , and they looked at each other for a second and then kissed.  Like animals.  Clawing each other’s bodies at the fire, biting their lips and getting each other so hot and wanting a fuck so bad.  The mapmaker kissed like -- nobody, ever.  Like he wanted to just eat the doctor’s entire body, whole.  He started with the doctor’s lips, French kissing him with more passion and power than any woman would.  And then sort of moved on, and kissed him everywhere else he wanted to.  Biting and sucking the doctor’s skin.  It was insane, like a wild man.  And the doctor let him and just watched, and tried to learn it so he could do it right back.  He was hard as steel and losing his head, fast.  He wanted that mapmaker to get to his cock too, just kiss it and work it over hard.  And then they took turns touching each other’s bodies, all over.  The mapmaker was so bloody hot and intense, the doctor wanted to take him in his arms and lick him, finger him open and fuck, just take him right then, so bad.”  John listens to the socket.  “Coming over there,” he whispers.

John stands up from the bed slowly, letting its metallic pops and creaks fill several seconds, one after another.  He pads into Sherlock’s room and nearly bumps into his friend; he has managed to stand up more silently.  “Another kiss, love.  What would --“

Sherlock says, very quietly, into John’s ear, “Make me come.”  He leans down to catch John’s mouth in a frantic kiss, worthy of a mapmaker who has completely abandoned all reason over his friend and doctor. 

John doesn’t have to be asked twice ( _ever_ ) and tugs down Sherlock’s pyjama and his own.  _Jesus, so wet._   He jerks himself a bit and rubs a little over the head of Sherlock’s cock, not that he needs more; Sherlock inhales slowly and holds it for a few seconds; John’s confident, warm touch is driving spikes of heavy want down his entire abdomen and thighs.  He turns and gropes for the wooden chair Roman uses at his desk, backing down into it under John’s kisses and clutching at the seat as he feels John lower himself, crouch between his knees, clamp his hands tightly over his thighs, and start lapping over him, feeling all the trembling and desperation of an overactive mind that has been dreaming of an over-attractive John inches away.  John is in no hurry, kissing, nibbling and licking with far more relish than he might in better light, making Sherlock twitch all over and gasp against the hand he has guardedly pressed over his own mouth.  John swallows him all down and kisses him until all the throbbing and shaking has flowed away.  He can hear slick sounds and skin on skin; John is getting close, kneeling in complete silence, and Sherlock breaks into it by asking him to stand and wrapping his arms around John’s thighs, letting John fuck his mouth deep and fast; the darkness has made them both braver.  And John is shocked to be allowed so far in; orgasm tumbles through him  and the silence and blackness of it give him strange chills all over.  Yet he is sweating like mad; he hasn’t fucked a mouth like that in --

"It's been -- " John suddenly comes up for air.  “Hold me, a little, all right?”

“Mmm.”

“Was I too rough, love?” They are sitting close to each other on the floor, now, and John has reached out for Sherlock’s face, finding his ear first.

“No.”

“You’re.  My beautiful phoenix, my only one for always, you know?”

“Yes.”

John pets Sherlock’s hair and breathes through his open mouth.  “You’re shaking,” he remarks after a long silence.

“What was the rest of the story, John?”

“Uhm.” John shakes his head.  “What?”

“The rest of your story.”

“Yeah.  The mapmaker?  He.  Uhm.  He let the doctor stay and take care of him, because they both wanted that.”

“I presume the mapmaker’s foot _was_ saved and he was skillfully nursed back to health by the doctor, who dispensed a bounty of class B painkillers and took full advantage of those bed-bound days, pleasuring the mapmaker and himself frequently.”

“Ye - ah, that’s what -- yeah, very frequently, couldn’t help himself.”

“Then they married and lived happily ever after in the forest.”

“Heh, sure.”

“Either way, it ended like this:  the doctor soon discovered the truth.”

“What was that.”

“The mapmaker was indeed the only one of his kind in the world.”

“Yeah.”

“The _first_ cartographer who’d ever found himself lost.  Entirely.  Unable to imagine any place in his mind or in the world if it didn’t include his doctor.”

“Hmmm.  That’s really nice.  Love you.” John puts his head against Sherlock’s neck and kisses his throat.

“Mm.”

“Come here, I can’t find your lips.”

“Mmm, soldier.”

“So.  My phoenix.  Sleep,” John yawns.  “Couldn’t stay away from you if I tried.  That was -- bloody beyond hot.”

“Why should you stay away, John.”

“That was the thing.”

They kiss and exchange a few more endearments before John returns to his room; he can hear that Roman is still not asleep, so he goes out quietly to the kitchen for a much-needed drink of water.  He switches on a tiny light over the cooker, which flickers and then glows weakly.

“No, John,” Roman says behind him, when John raises a mug of tap water to his lips.  “From kettle or you will be sick.”

“You boil everything.  Like in the Middle East, yeah?” John turns and looks back at the Pole, who is propped up slightly on his elbows and studying him from his makeshift bed.  He dumps out the water into the sink, replacing it with tepid kettle water.

“And half of Europe countries, too,” Roman comments, and John wonders if he has offended the man.  It’s impossible to tell.  “You want cigarette?”

“No, thanks,” John shrugs.

“Want sandwich?  I make.”

“No, no.  Going back to sleep.”  _As if I’ve slept.  And no, I don’t look like I’ve just been shagging in your office, damn it to hell._

“A small beer?” Roman seems hopeful.

“Ehhh.  Tomorrow.”

“I give you for breakfast,” Roman suggests and almost smiles.

John sets the empty mug on the window sill and almost smiles back.  “Why not.  Goodnight.”

“Sleep good.”

He returns to his bed, letting it creak as he settles into the centre of it.  “Goodnight, my love,” he whispers into the wall socket but doesn’t hear a reply.  He lays on his back with an arm behind his head and rolls the base of his skull over it.  He stares up into the dark and thinks.  Tries to think.  _A post-coital -- thing.  Weird, though.  ‘They -- married and lived happily ever after.  In the forest’.  A fairy-tale ending, just.  Sarcasm, maybe.  Living happily ever after in a forest, like a couple of -- deer or -- snakes.  Foxes, badgers --_ John drifts into a vague and colourless dream of flying.

Two panels of drywall away, Sherlock is losing a staring contest with a tiny red stand-by light on Roman’s desk; after just over six months in a relationship with John, he believes he has confirmation that he is not John’s first male sexual partner.  He frets briefly over the ending he’d suggested to John’s story.  It had come out in an unexpected gush of envy.  _A foolish slip_.  He brushes it aside quickly; he is exhausted.  He closes his eyes, not bothering with the pyjama -- _trousers are not an advantage_. He yawns so deeply it is almost painful.  His throat aches.


	26. Unsinkable

While Sherlock showers, John helps Roman put together a breakfast with piles of tasty sandwiches.  John can’t get over how natural the foods are and the smoked veal cold cuts he is layering on top of fresh herb spreading cheese and covering with tufts of carrot and sauerkraut slaw are among the best he has ever tasted.  “This bread is good,” he says, sniffing a dense, dark carroway honey rye.  “Nothing like it in London.”

“I know place with this.  I give you telephone for this bread, you order from Polish baker when you want.”

John is preparing a pot of tea and pulls out the honey jar.  He is following Sherlock’s progress from the shower ( _I’d wash all of you and lick the water off -- nope, not boiled --_ ), the sound of a towel passed over his lithe body and mad hair, and the click of the door as he comes out in a burst of steam and makes for Roman’s office to dress.  John grits his teeth and stirs heavy honey into his friend’s cup, fussing over the table until the man comes back clothed ( _damn it_ ) and sits down.

“Mandarins.  Please,” Roman says, gesturing at a baggie of tangerines.  Sherlock takes one and begins peeling it scrupulously.  He is avoiding John’s eyes, absorbed in the process of stripping the fruit as John and Roman talk about a castle that is just under an hour’s drive away.

John pushes the mug toward Sherlock.  “Yours -- like before.”

Sherlock nods and pops a citrus wedge into his mouth, crushing it against his palate. 

The three men drop into silence as they chew.  John is replaying the evening before.  _Hot._   But.  Too rough on Sherlock’s throat, definitely.  He’d never have managed to take that.  By the time he has licked the last bit of butter from his lips (Sherlock is still not looking at him) he is convinced he’d overdone things and wants to apologise.  He has no idea what to say, and if it even makes sense to try.  _I lost myself a little --_

Sherlock knows that much.  But he is somewhere else entirely, in his head.  He is preparing to provoke Luke into making a crucial error.  Losing John for a few hours, he decides, is necessary.  He’ll send him off with Roman.  He watches his soldier stand, push in his chair and curl his fingers nervously.  “Right.  So, a shower.  Roman?  Going in, or?”

“No, no.  You, please,” the Pole answers, and picks up another sandwich. 

“Show him _Nec mergitur_ ,” Sherlock says to Roman.

“Yes.  Very nice, we can.”

Once John has locked himself in the bathroom and Sherlock is confident the water is drowning out his voice, he leans over to Roman and hisses, “Now.  The _gun_.  Where is it.”

“My bed.”

 _Oh, hell._   “Bring it to me, please.”  To Sherlock’s dismay, Roman crosses the room and produces a silver pistol with a long suppressor from beneath his large, goosedown pillow.  “Have you been _sleeping_ with this?” he asks.

“Yes.  I can’t sleep.”  The Pole rubs his face and groans to himself.

“ _Don’t_ tell John.”

“He is your guard.”

“Yes, he is.  But don’t tell him,” he says to Roman, and takes the gun into the bedroom.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asks, once he has finished his shower and discovered that he is alone with Roman again.

“He go to office.  I show you today Lithuanian Art and we can drive to castle.”  

***

John is taken to a smallish but impressive national gallery, and once he is there, Roman marches him through a few paintings by famous Poles and they end up in an exhibition of early twentieth-century art.  One thing that draws John’s attention is the fact that in nearly every room there is a person, usually an older lady, seated in a corner (or pacing crossly) observing the visitors keenly while they, in turn, try to enjoy the art.  In place of a security system, he thinks, and has a diabolical urge to poke at the nearest painting.  He clasps his hands behind his waist instead.

“There is famous picture from Polish artist, Ruszczyc.  _Nec mergitur._ You know it?  ‘Does not go down in water’.  Like Paris saying, with galleon.  Very known picture,” Roman explains.

“Not sure I understand.  Oh.  Yeah, the motto, right.  Unsinkable, you mean.”

“Yes.  Sherlock wants that I show you it.” 

The painting is about six foot square, and depicts a wild, almost organic-looking golden galleon with red, radiant sails, precariously balanced atop a massive swell of colourful water.  John has started breathing at it through his mouth.  “Wow.”  One of the watcher-women struts and needles them with dirty looks nearby; John awkwardly smiles and steps over to the next painting; out of the corner of his eye he spies a small bit of paper wedged behind the frame on the galleon, at the bottom right, perhaps to even it out against the wall.  His curiosity is diverted by a study of white horses rushing through a snowy forest; soon Roman is describing sleigh rides and mulled wine in Poland’s highlands -- thus John does not act on the urge to reach for what the watcher-woman will, later in her shift -- a little note, which she tosses in the bin on her way home:  _With you, yes.  SH_

***

Three small words, missed.  John has _danced_.  By himself.  For the first time in years.  A lark.  Now, he is sitting, drinking a beer and watching.  And he is hurting.  It bruises him in all his softest spots to see Sherlock, dancing and laughing with someone else, in a club, abroad, where the girls and boys _are_ bloody lovely -- and John is feeling completely ignored; he is touchy for another reason, however:  Sherlock had rummaged through John’s shaving kit and had extracted a condom and dropped it into his shirt pocket without a word of explanation, or as much as a smile.  “Dress.  We’re going out,” he’d mumbled.

Luke had indeed invited Sherlock and John, and Roman by default, for drinks.  Roman had gone quiet and stiff and after a single beer still looks like he is about vomit.  He lights cigarette after cigarette and stares expressionlessly at Sherlock, who is chatting up a tall, blond girl; John has taken to watching Luke, who has suddenly laughed and turned to Roman with a significant leer that makes the Pole go paler and John see red. 

When he looks out at the dance floor again, he is startled and horrified to see that Sherlock has slipped out, somehow.  And the blonde is gone, as well.  John glances at Roman, who is staring down at his knees, nostrils flared, eyes inscrutable. 

“I’m bloody knackered,” John says to Luke.  “Thanks for this.  Roman?  Going back?”

“Ehhh.  Yes.  I have key.”

“Tell Sherlock we’ve gone back,” John says, with a glib smile _._

***

Sherlock and the blonde have laughed their way through several old, narrow streets and retreated to a dark alleyway.  Sherlock catches the hand on his hip and watches the girl -- a flinch of pain has come to ‘her’ face a microsecond too late.

“ _Stani.” *_

_“Co jest, kochany?”_

_“Boli mi vugla.  Koliko_?”

“ _Chorwacki?  O, kurwa.  Sto._ ”

“ _Srbin_.”

“ _Och, nawet ciekawsze!_ ”

Sherlock’s slams a knee up straight to the crotch.  “ _Govno yedno_ ,” he hisses, pulling the howling -- man’s -- hairpiece off his head.  He presses the suppressor on the back of the bloke’s skull before kicking him back from himself.  He is salivating with nausea as Luke’s cohort and right hand runs off; Sherlock tails him until he is certain he has a second address and another of the pieces he needs in one of the ugliest puzzles he has had before him in quite some time. 

__________________

_* Serbian and Polish texts:_

_\- Stop._

_\- What, sweetie?_

_\- My [head; slang] hurts.  How much?_

_\- Croatian?  Oh, fuck.  A hundred._

_\- Serbian._

_\- Oo, even more interesting._

_\- You piece of shit._

 

***

Sherlock returns to Roman's flat and leaves the gun with the Pole; he insists that he not sleep with it, and heads straight to John’s room, finding it empty; his soldier is waiting, quiet and tense, in Roman’s office, in bed.  In the complete dark of the room, Sherlock realises that his hands are trembling.  John exhales and puts an arm around him.  “Hey.  You ‘kay?”

“John.”  He whispers, his lips tracing over John’s ear and hair.  “I love you with all my heart.”

“Love you, too.”

“Did you get my note?  At the museum.”

 _Damn it, maybe that paper?_   “No.”

"Did you -- like the painting?"

"Yeah, gorgeous."

“Okay.  I.  I need you.”

Sherlock has grasped John and kissed him so hard it is cracking his own lower lip, inside.

“Can’t move -- like this.”  John turns his head away.

“Now.” Sherlock has put a hand in John’s trousers and is pulling them off.

“Don’t -- Sher --  hhh --”

“John.”

“Can’t breathe.”

“Touch me.”

“ _Stop_.”

“What is it.”

“Need to see you.  All right?”

“You can feel me.”

“The _light_ ,” John hisses.

Sherlock leans precariously off the bed until he manages to poke a power button on the Pole’s computer monitor; it glows a deep blue, giving both men contours and faces.  He turns back to John and is intrigued when he sees rage and embarrassment all over his face, particularly around his mouth, which is a mere line, quavering with tension.  “It’s all right,” he says.

“What,” John mutters, defensively. 

“All of it.  I’m not put off, John.”

“Sure, and?”

 _Your silence, the roughness, the darkness._ “The friend in the photographs from Kandahar.”

“Ffff.  Come _on_.”

“ _Steven_.  Tell me.”

John growls, “He was shot through the throat and sternum, died.”

“Confirm my deductions.  You saved Jim’s life by talking him out of shooting himself in the chest.”

John clears his throat.  “Let it go.” 

“He held a rifle between his knees.”

“Yeah.  Six hours.” 

“And you stayed in very close proximity, in the dark, talking him down.”

“Could have had a lot of trouble but some of the others covered for us that we were in our beds all night.  At dawn, when the sun came up, it was red.  Bloody beautiful.  He handed it over.  Okay?  Enough.” 

“Incidentally, that was when you began the ‘tradition’ of yours with Jim, regarding expressions of gratitude for living to see a particular day, the one you were referring to in going to him with news of our involvement.  But there’s more.  What happened just afterward.  You disarmed him, emptied the magazine.  You were holding him in your arms.  Your friend Steven happened upon the two of you in this posture on his way to his duties.  After that, Jim picked fights with Steven out of fear of being thought of as ‘gay’.  You intervened.  Steven misunderstood your intentions, which led to an incident -- I’m thinking at least two.  Reciprocation.  The bullying intensified and because of your secret, mediation was difficult.  Then you were shot, rescued by Jim, and during your recovery Steven was killed in action.  You then repressed your experience.”

“Hmm.”  John closes his eyes and growls to himself:  _not mentioning something to anyone is not synonymous with repressing it.  Damn it._ “Didn’t _repress_ it, just kept it to myself.”

“Well.  Jim reacted violently to the news you brought him at Charing Cross regarding our involvement because he felt betrayed by his former negotiator.  It is quite transparent, now.”

“If it’s all so sodding transparent, have some respect for the dead. _And let it be_.”

“Am I right, John?”

John turns his head away and swears into his palm.  “Playing with me, now.”

“This is not _play_ ,” Sherlock replies. 

“Look.  I’m _not proud of that_ , don’t you get it?  I was _engaged_.”

“And _that_ is what has bothered you, not --” _\-- that it was a man.  Oh._

“Yeah.  Do we talk about this, or?”

“Y -- es.  Please.”

Both men steel themselves in their own minds for what is coming; Sherlock’s head is buzzing with questions he will not have the bravado to ask.  Not tonight, at least.  He is busy putting together a reply to what John will inevitably ask _him_.  About _them_.  

John nibbles at his lip nervously.  “Right,” he finally mumbles.  “Just him.  Hands.  Mostly.”  He tips his head up and glares over into Sherlock’s eyes, challenging him to ask for clarification.  Then, he stammers forward.  “Consensual, and.  There was no -- uhm.  Closure to it.  You know.  But it had its own place, and time.  That’s all.  Okay?  Now you?  Just.  Who.”

“So.”  Sherlock swallows at his dry throat.  “I have no ‘exes’, or former _lovers_.  Five persons, one a woman, a professor.  Human error.”  Sherlock takes a breath and pushes back subsets of difficult facts that are swarming in his head; perhaps this is why he resorts to an oddly technical tone:  “One was potentially engaging, albeit unavailable.  To me.  Shall we say.”

“Oh,” John says gently, and nods.

“Disappointing.  Impetus for my research on dissociation potentials in ionic bonding.  Though after that, it appears that only chaotic dissociation remained.  In place of bonds.  Well.  Quaint auto-irony, as Mycroft has pointed out.” Sherlock sniffs a sarcastic laugh; although his words sound as if he were reciting them for the hundredth time, it is one of his more uncomfortable improvisations in recent memory.  “Occasional employment of seduction for sport, personal advantage or casework, though without physical involvement.”

John sighs.  “Alex.”

“He was the last.  A gaffe, which galvanized the need to make you aware, regardless of the outcome.”

“Yeah, I was getting there, too, but.” 

“The rest you know.  Obviously.”  Sherlock shuts his mouth and puts his arms around John, ready to reconnect.  He is nervous enough that his hands and lips are trembling, which John will certainly feel.  But Sherlock has (however cryptically, circumspectly and uneasily) admitted aloud, after many years, to the pain of unreturned love.  The specifics of which he does not plan to voice for anything in the world.  

In fact, to each man, the exchange has come as a shock, and ended in relief.  John bites his lower lip as he processes it:  on the one hand, it is a few dozen long-overdue words; someone could call it a less-than-minimum between best friends, let alone lovers.  But John realises that it feels quite okay:  that fleeting connection back in Kandahar had been intense.  Eye-opening, too.  And yes, the guilt over cheating, never resolved, had fucked up his engagement almost as much as his impatience, scars, limp and silence.  He nods to himself. “Hmm.  Put off?” he asks, carefully.  Because now, _that_ really matters.

“Not put off, soldier, no,” Sherlock replies against John’s hair, which he is sniffing gently.  “Are you?”

John realises all at once that during his silence, Sherlock has been trying to calm himself down.  “Put off?  No, not at all.”

“Okay.” 

“Tell you something,” John says.

“Mm.”

John moves over and leans his head against Sherlock’s chest.  “This.” John pets Sherlock’s arm and shoulder.  “Is so much to me.”  John shuts his eyes and grunts at himself.  _Idiot, talk_.  He’d wanted that to come out quite differently.  At least as a complete thought.   _Jesus, what’s wrong with me._

Sherlock has reached for John’s neck.  He turns John’s chin up to meet his mouth, brushing his soldier’s lips with his own.  John smiles a little.   He doesn’t have a chance to answer before Sherlock has covered his mouth in kisses. 

“Hot,” John groans, relaxing slowly under the pressure of Sherlock’s lips, as he strokes John’s face and neck.

“Yes.  I’ve discovered something, tonight.  A game-changer, John,” Sherlock says, his eyes shining strangely in the dimness of the computer screen.

“Sure.” John shakes his head.

“Namely, you _can_ dance.  By yourself, quite well.”

John snorts, relieved enough to start giggling immediately in half-disbelief.  “Nah, come on.”   

“Do it again when I can watch you longer.”

“Are you -- taking the piss?”

“Absolutely not.” Sherlock’s hands are all over John's chest and neck.

“Hey, now.  We’re in someone else’s bed and it’s noisy as _hell_.”

“And I should resist you, when you’ve never been more attractive?”

“Should, yeah.”

“Floor.”

“Hell, yes.”

“Mmmm.”  Sherlock throws his blanket and pillow onto the narrow area between the bed and Roman’s desk and guides John down onto it, pinning him by his good shoulder, his fingers hovering over John’s chest before he props himself up on an elbow and holds John’s eyes from a distance that hardly allows space for _thought_ in John’s mind.  “Now.  _Où est le grand méchant loup._ ”

“Heh,” John smiles.  “ _Le voilà.  Tu sais pas?_ ”  He yanks Sherlock against his chest for a kiss, knocking a small laugh from his friend, which turns into a long, deep, rattling moan as John clutches at his back and inches his hands over his friend’s arse, holding him down against his hips, letting him feel all the want in him down _there_ , rolling his cock in obscene circles under Sherlock’s.  Where they are on the floor, he is unable to see that his friend has a deep flush over his entire neck, and that he has closed his eyes.  His head is reeling.  He is trying to catch up.  At first.  It is far better, however, to let John’s heat, saliva and slick soak into him -- each point of contact feels perfect, electric.  It always does.  And to feel John _move_ , and what he expresses in his kisses, is _magic_.


	27. A single shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence and (minor character) death, PTSD.

John comes to, startled and stiff, in a sweat, to the sight of a desk just across from him; Sherlock is plastered against his back in the narrow bed in Roman’s office.  He’d meant to rest for a bit but hadn’t made it back out of the room.  His sudden, somewhat guilty movement has woken Sherlock.  “Roman doesn’t mind.  Mmmm,” he mumbles, pulling John back against his chest.

“He knows?”

“No.  But he doesn’t mind.” 

“Let me up, love.  Need to get up.  Hey, now, let go.  Hmmm, that feels -- nnnnn.  Come, now.  Let me --“

Sherlock must be far more awake than he is letting on, John decides, because he is making quick work of all his most sensitive spots and has buried his lips and nose where he can tickle and kiss John all at once.  “Never.” 

“What are we doing today?”

“A little something for queen and country.”

“Yeah, so I feel.  Hey,” John protests as Sherlock prods his cock against John’s arse.  “Stop it, now, let me up before I piss myself.”

“Boring.”

***

Breakfast is tense.  Roman refuses food and smokes like an industrial chimney.  As he dresses, Sherlock explains:  “We have less than an hour before Luke discovers that the new coding schema I delivered to him from one of my brother’s crony-bands was a sequence that allowed analysts to tunnel the backdoor in his operating system.  He’s turned, that much has been confirmed.  The extent of the damage hasn’t been assessed, and probably won’t be for some days, built his own mini-network, selling Roman’s coding work and frittering away the proceeds at an illegal casino.”

“Roman told me about his codes.  True, then,” John whispers.

“Mm.  They’ll be capable of anything.  Luke in particular.  The condom?” Sherlock says.  “A second mini-drive.  And I finally got a chance to use it.  A second tunnel, straight to my brother’s senior-most secretary.  He’ll _beg_ me to introduce him to Nikita, the Russian lace-maker, who makes lace of any network,” Sherlock sighs to himself with a distant smile.

“So he --”

“Not out of the question, Luke’s a coward.” 

“Hm.”

“It might not come to that.  His decision, either way.”

“What’s his decision?”  John asks, darkening.  “ _What_.”

“He’ll know what to do.”  Sherlock smiles again, which is so off that John does a double take. 

***

As soon as Sherlock, John and Roman have entered Luke’s offices, the man is at their throats.  “Fucker _bolloxed the servers_ ,” he starts in at Roman, who Sherlock sends away quickly, to avoid what is about to turn into a physical fight.

“It’s up, Corporal,” Sherlock tells Luke.

To John’s horror, Sherlock has pulled a gun from his coat -- a silver pistol of unfamiliar make, perhaps Russian, with a large suppressor, though in that room it wouldn’t silence _anything_.  _If fired.  Fired -- shit, shit -- not like this!_

Luke pants.  “You know fuck-all, Holmes, about what and who you’re dealing with, you couldn’t keep your paws to yourself?  Huh.  You’ll see.  Easy.  Wilk’s been working on the side and you expect me to cover for him?  You won’t find a thing, I’m honourable through and through.”

“Oh, I’m not the one looking, Luke.  They’re all on their way, now, but who will get to you first?  One of your illustrious clientele or my brother’s people?  My money’s on the former, but --”  Sherlock holds the gun out to Luke in his (gloved) palm.  “All that’s left now,” Sherlock is saying resignedly, “is to do the honourable thing.  Since you’re an honourable man.  You’ve got one shot.” 

 _Not this, not this way --_ John’s mouth waters.  He is suddenly aware of a deep ache in his knees and the urge to crouch down or spring away seems to radiate from that point up.  Sherlock has backed away toward the doorway with his hands up, though John’s path to the door is a good four feet longer.  He turns and looks at Sherlock with disbelief and rage in all his features which only intensifies when Sherlock refuses to meet his eyes; John can hardly stay as still as he is, much longer. 

 _To a traitor_ (with a slew of motives to make sure they do not leave that room) -- _and you’re leaving --!  Why!_   John’s brain is whirring over the enormity of that space, and a broad step to the right that he decides he will take, no matter what.  _Can’t block a shot to the head --_

“Okay, John,” Sherlock assures John, locking eyes determinedly with Luke and nodding; John raises his hands; he has gone gray in the face.  “Let’s step out, calmly, give him a minute.”

John turns his back to Luke and takes a step toward the door.  Then another thought occurs to him as Sherlock finally turns his eyes his way:  _Disarm this fucker._

“I ought to do Mycroft Holmes a favour,” Luke hisses, studying the gun in his hand.

“You ought to,” Sherlock replies.  “Come, John.”

John will not forget those few seconds; he looks straight at Sherlock and winks.  A signal.  _I can take him down, love_. 

 _Vatican_ \-- something horrifying passes through Sherlock’s eyes.  “I love you, John,” he says, and squeezes his teeth together.

John freezes in shock.  A spine-numbing half-second of distraction, a hiss of absolute disgust and a sudden movement behind John seem to mesh:  John has missed his chance to turn round.  They all know it.  His mind goes red inside, and he leaps.  The dull pop of a powerful discharge leaves a shush of pressure deep in his ears; then they’re ringing; his _knees_ are completely numb:  that is his first complete thought.

He had thrown himself forward and knocked Sherlock flat to the floor;  he can’t recall the precise moment of the discharge itself, if he’d been in time.  He knows, or thinks he knows, that he hasn’t been hit, himself.  _Focus.  Fuck._   He pats down his phoenix, who doesn’t appear to be breathing.  Five seconds pass (he will feel them in his sleep from time to time, in the months to come, without knowing entirely what they are).

Sherlock hears John mumbling, “Nnn.  Hmm hhh -- _hhhh_ \-- _no_ \--” as though his body has begun winding itself to release all hell, at a signal his mind still cannot allow itself to form; his hands are flying over Sherlock’s head, and torso and legs, ticking off arterial points and tearing at his shirt to reach skin and feel  for bleeding.  He shoves his fingers sharply beneath Sherlock’s jaw and finds a powerful, rapid pulse.  He pauses at it, eyes darting over Sherlock’s face, for the longest second of all.  _John, it’s okay.  Okay._   John is about to pivot and lunge for their attacker when Sherlock reaches up and grasps John’s shoulders in his hands and pulls him into a tight embrace, squashing John’s nose painfully against his collarbone.  “Hhhh --” John rasps.  “Hit?”

Sherlock is not hiding his nerves and his teeth start chattering when he heaves, shakes his head and says, “’Kay.”  John had hit him with a tackle worthy of an Australian rugby player.  The back of his head is throbbing from the impact and he still can’t entirely catch his breath. 

“Sher -- oh -- God.”

“’K - ay.”

 “Wh -- “

“Hhhh.  _Crush-ing_ \-- me.”

“Ah -- shhhit -- ”

“Hear?”

“Hmmm, mmm.”

“Luke.  Look.”

“Nnn --”

“One -- shot.  Hhhh.  Hhh.  _Up_.”

“Wh --“

“John.  _Look_.”  Sherlock tries to breathe.  “Off me.”

“Oh.  Yeah.”

“John.  Can you hear me?”

John turns; he claps a hand over his forehead and groans.  “Wh -- oh, God.  Oh, shit.” 

“Calmly.”

“Took it -- in the throat!” John gasps.  “Took -- it.” 

“Yes.  Breathe.”

John understands now that he had heard more sounds; the volume and length of each is difficult to recall but the sequence is certainly _not_.   A rustle.  The shot. The last gurgle of life from a man with his upper chest and arm shredded by a close range explosion.  The duration of the silence had passed unmarked.  Somehow.  He’d lost track.  _Lost it.  Don’t.  Don’t lose it.  Breathe!_

“Nearly instant death.”  Sherlock’s voice rumbles into his awareness.

“Misfire,” John inhales loudly through his nose a few times, deeply.  His head hurts.  “Jammed.”

“So it would seem,” Sherlock replies.

John looks down at himself and sees that he has blood on his shoulder and upper arm.  “Fuck.”  He pales.  “Is it me?  No.  Not me.”

“No.”

“Lucky, so _lucky_ \-- hmmm --”

“Never luck, John.”

_“Shut up.”_

“John.  Look again.  Really look.  His arm.  His position.”

“Huh.” 

“Robinson Road, remember?  The dead man’s arm?”

“Arm....”

“Look.  Do you see it?”

“Hmmm.  He -- aimed.  My back.  No, your _head_ \--”

“Yes, of course.  Though he considered shooting you first --“

“Honourable!”

“Dead men keep secrets.” 

John nods and finds he is nauseated by the movement.  “Need to wash this -- off.”

“Mmhmm.”

John is trying to steady his breathing; he crawls away from Sherlock and puts his head down closer to his knees.  “Hhhhuh.  Set me up.  You set me up.”

“In a fashion.  However --“

The stench of blood is oppressive.  _A pointless, senseless speculation.  It worked as intended.  Perfectly._  Sherlock nods to himself. 

“Oh, hey.  You all right?  Sherlock.  Sher -- hey.  Look at me” 

Sherlock waves John off.  He is trying not to consider any other outcome than a misfire.   _Irrelevant._   But increasingly intrusive. 

“But.  Love.  What do we -- do.  _Shit_.  They’ll blame us.  You.  You can’t.  You _can’t_ take the blame for this, love.  Tell them I -- they’ll -- oh, fuck.”

Roman’s quick, flat footsteps clap up the hallway in their direction.  The door flies open and the Pole’s eyes scan wildly about the room.  A wave of Sherlock’s arm implies that they are uninjured and the man’s attention falls on the appalling gore of Luke’s right arm and throat.  “ _Jebany -- eehhh --_ ”*  Roman swivels toward the wall and gags, vomiting a puddle of tea and bile near the door.  He coughs and moans, heaving twice more.   John is convinced the man will faint but after holding the wall for a bit he straightens and pulls himself together.  “ _Kurwa_.  I afraid he kill you.  What is happen, what with this pistol?  _Kurwa mać_.  _Fuj._ ”

“He meant to shoot me in the face.”

“ _O, kurwa_.”

“The pistol misfired,” Sherlock explains as John shakes his head and sniffs.  “He was fatally injured.  You know what to do.”

“I know.”

“Send word to Mycroft Holmes.  The ‘N2’.  It’s over.”

“Finish.”

“Yes.”

Roman’s hand trails over a wall as he stumbles away down the hall, in complete shock.

Sherlock stares past John and takes in the splatter patterning, position of the furniture, prints.  The gore, the position of the arms.  The throat, the contorted expression of horror and shock on the face.  He is storing the hateful scene and working over every objection he can imagine a minion making.  He pulls off his gloves quickly.  _Stupid!_ He stuffs them in his pocket.

“Why’d you say that.  That you love me.”  John is biting at the inside of his cheek.  

“Because I love you.”

“Was it goodbye?  That was goodbye.  Wasn’t it.  Fuck.  It _was_.”

“There was a margin for error.”

“What!”

“You wanted to disarm him.”

“Hm.” 

“It was to divert you.”  Sherlock bites at his lip, where a nervous smile is curling up ( _not good_ ).  “And I needed him to raise the weapon higher.”

John is too upset to take stock of what Sherlock has just told him. 

It is just as well, Sherlock decides. 

They don’t have long.  Three gentlemen (two in suits and earpieces) arrive shortly after Roman’s transmission. 

Clean-up is shockingly swift, John notes.  ‘Cover-up’ doesn’t cross John’s mind.  Sherlock is counting on that:  John’s authentic reaction to the ‘accident’ is invaluable.  He feels little, himself, but manages to pass himself off as dismayed.  This office, he knows, is one of fourteen (or more) similar broadcasting and encoding centres in the Baltic states, a drop in the ocean of England’s apparatus.  What has happened, objectively speaking, is quite meaningless.

***

It is impossible to say who is leading whom as John and Sherlock make their way in the shadows, back to Roman’s flat.  John removes his coat and starts pulling off his blood-stained clothes as soon as he is indoors and doesn’t come out of the bathroom for a long while.  Sherlock hears him vomit in the shower, most likely while scrubbing the shirt.

“You are pair,” Roman remarks, as he and Sherlock smoke in the kitchen.  “Not my problem when you are pair with John, I am tolerant man.  I give you beer?  _Kurwa_.  What is happen with situation, I don’t know.  What I do, I don’t know.”

“You’ll take your pay and go home to your wife,” Sherlock tells him, raising a glass of beer and examining its head.  “ _Zdrówko_.”

_________________

* _Polish texts:_

_\- Fucking --_

_\- Oh fuck, fuck -- bleh_

_\- To your health (diminutive)_

***

Sherlock holds the blankets open for his gray-faced, silent John and catches his arm when a mattress spring clangs downward suddenly and throws John off balance in the bed.  Neither man pretends.  There is numbness and rawness in turn.  And silence.  Sherlock keeps his mouth in the crook of John’s neck, but not to kiss.  He is wrapped around John from behind as he had been, first thing in the morning.

He is aware that John is hiding his eyes.  The only word that comes, and comes out, is “ _Promised_.”

“And you might have lost your hands and face,” Sherlock answers, and buries his head in John’s shoulder, overcome by the warmth of it.  The life in it.  “You thought I am monster enough to leave you with him,” Sherlock concludes, a postscript to thoughts he has kept to himself.

John closes his eyes and shakes his head.  “Don’t.”  He puts out a hand and strokes Sherlock’s arm. 

“It _had_ to misfire, John.”

“Divine intervention, I guess.  Yeah.”  Sherlock has the nerve, or lack thereof, to burst into a strange tittering laugh at that.  He snorts and John is hit with a spike of anger.  “ _Stop_ it.  Stop.”

“It was meant to.”

“ _How_.”  There is a lengthy, difficult silence.  John doesn’t want to break it -- he wants answers but doesn’t know if he can bear to hear anything more, now.

“You might say it was child’s play,” Sherlock tells him.

“Not funny.  What the hell are you saying,” John hisses.

“Linda’s son, Michael.  Gave me the idea.  A ‘bad-guy’ gun that fires backward if a ‘bad guy’ uses it, he said.  Remember his gun plan?  He wanted rainbows blowing out from the barrel, and blood pouring out behind?  At Christmas?  Brilliant premise, I merely took it a step further.”

John’s eyes widen at a dawning realisation.  _Impossible._   He turns his body to face Sherlock.  “Booby-trapped?  Serious?” 

“By all appearances an accident, the gun partially self-destructs inside what appears to be a suppressor.”

John huffs.  “Yeah.  It worked.”

“It would take one of the top ballistics experts in Europe to figure out how it was done.”

“You mean.  You.  It was --“

“Yes.”

“Rainer.” John thinks about the damaged, bloodied weapon with an expression of dismay and interest on his face.  “Rainer’s work.”

“He built one, for me.  A single-shot pistol.  He calls it a ‘mother-in-law’ gun.”

“Single-shot.  Truly single-shot.”

“Yep.”

“Jesus Christ.  Wh -- wait.  How did you get it?”

“It was hand-carried, from Vienna, through Germany and France, across the Channel to Brighton, where Roman took it.  I’d planned to have it brought through the Czech Republic from Austria, into Poland and then onward, but Roman was in England -- ”

“Why Roman.  He’s -- who is he?”

“A very loyal intelligence worker.  An engineer.  An excellent programmer who dodges rules according to a strong moral compass.  I knew something was seriously wrong when he agreed to bring it without hesitation.”

“Wow.  Shit.” 

“He brought it by ferry to Sweden, and on to Lithuania.  Schengen, John.  Entry without customs.  Spot checks, of course that was a risk.  He’d hoped to use it against Luke, free himself from his oppressor.  Yes, oppressor.  I’ve kept it in my coat today so he wouldn’t die trying.  Luke had been tormenting Roman for months.  Diverting most of his salary.”

“What?  Why?”

“Blackmail.  Photographs of Roman with a man he thought was a woman.  You saw the blonde dancing with me in the club?  The same one.  Luke had a bit of film, threatened to show it to Roman’s wife.  Forced Roman into writing algorithms to send code for organised crime with corrupt military backing, and one foreign agent.  Now Mycroft’s people will start breaking apart that puzzle, though it may be too late, they’ll have disappeared, been sent elsewhere.”

“You’ve -- this was a hit?  You came to --?”

“No, I gave him a gun and he killed himself.  If he hadn't, I'd have kept it, in fact.  See, John.  He had instincts, he’d have felt trapped and made a move.”

“What kind of move.”

“Showing Roman was working for a foreign agent, which he is not, but Luke had crafted a safety net for himself, with Roman as the scapegoat.”

“Jesus.”

“Roman considered using the gun against Luke.  Daily.  He slept with it, unaware of what it was.  He isn’t a murderer, but even so, you see why I couldn’t let anything happen, in case he felt emboldened by our presence.  I wanted to keep them apart so I let him busy himself with watching out for you, instead.  In fact, I had no guarantee you weren’t being followed, too, in case Luke wanted to force my hand, as well.  It appears he hadn’t thought it through, fortunately for him.”

“He’s _dead_.”

“And it was quick,” Sherlock says, and the darkness in his voice and a glint of steel in his eye speak the rest.

“Oh, God.”

“Yes, John.  They’d hoped to try the same on me, threaten to shame me to my brother.  Luke didn’t realise the _futility_ in that idea, but I did manage to send a message.  A bit of Serbian works on the imagination, I find.”

“Serbian.”

“I still have a few phrases at my disposal after that stint.  Just before I returned to London from the dead.”

“ _Serbia?_ ”

“A tale for a rainy afternoon, I suppose.”

“Sherlock.  Love.  Wh -- uhm.”

“My John.”  Sherlock pets John’s head.

“Hmmm.”

“Dearest treasure in the world.”

“You ‘kay?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“So you weren’t saying goodbye.”

“If it _hadn’t_ worked, I wanted to end it properly.  This time.”  Sherlock has nerve pain around his heart; he wants the lamp shut off.  John tells him to leave it on and won’t take his eyes off his friend, even when Sherlock asks him to look away. 

He is keeping guard.


	28. Straight edge

“Gorgeous.”  John is leaning over the railing at the Gediminas tower, peering down over the Cathedral Square.  Sherlock is admiring him and smoking what he has just remarked (in response to furrowed eyebrows and a growl from John) is his last cigarette.  For the time being.

“At night, as well.”

“Roman brought me up here the first day. Can’t take any pictures,” John says, steam flowing around his breath. 

“Though you can see why we left the phones in England.”

“Hmm.”

“I plan to carry one less often.  Just a precaution,” Sherlock says.

“Meaning?”

Sherlock blows smoke through his nose.

“Sure,” John says, shaking his head and looking away with a frown.  “Bloody cold.”

John has been laconic all morning.  It comes as no surprise; he had slept poorly, waking up twice to a dream of falling and another of an explosion in the sand.  He is needy and distant at the same time, as only John can be, and it is confusing.  “John.  I love you,” Sherlock ventures, once they are nearly alone.

“You, too,” John mumbles.

“Upset, then?”

“A man blew his throat apart yesterday,” John mutters.  “I’d no idea.  No bloody idea.”

 _Relevant?  Perhaps._  “There was no way to know what he --“

“Love, don’t.”

They stand in silence and take in the view for several more minutes as Sherlock finishes his smoke.  “Go back to Roman’s.  I’ve one more errand,” he says.

There is unmistakable dread on John’s face.  “Coming with you.”  He coughs a cloud of steam and shivers. 

“No need, but.”

“Tell me where you’re going?”

Sherlock smiles.  “To a shoemaker’s, soldier.”

“A shoemaker’s.”

“To have two pairs made and sent on to London.  One of them for you.”

“For me?”

“I’d planned to surprise you.”

“Bespoke shoes from _Vilnius_?”

“Absolutely.  Divine.” Sherlock sighs to himself.  John’s shoes, he has already decided, will be dark blue brogues.

“Why not.  So, let's go.”

The trip to the shoemaker's is brief (leaving measurements, tracings and choosing a style from a worn photo album and leathers from stacks of calf skins, sorted by colour).  There is indeed an inky midnight blue.  And after a short discussion it is chosen over a dark graphite which seems more practical to John, but is overruled by his indomitable phoenix, who orders a quiet pair (literally, which cannot make a sound, he says) of nearly-seamless, soft boots in black for himself. 

John insists on stopping at one small shop with amber, where he picks up a strand of honey-orange beads for his lovely French teacher; he worries about her; she has been weathering morning sickness poorly.  "She'll like these," John remarks, ignoring Sherlock's quiet huff into his scarf.   _She needs all the cheering she can get_ , Sherlock thinks, certain that her two-faced banker in Cannes will make an unfortunate move, soon -- if he hasn’t already.  "Well.  If we had more time we'd visit a tailor's and a hatter’s as well,” Sherlock says wistfully, changing the subject as they return on foot quickly to Roman’s flat, where they find the Pole pacing and smoking.

“I make sandwiches for trip,” Roman says, forcing a plastic bag into John’s hand, “with your favourite bread.”

“That’s nice of you, you didn’t have to, thanks,” John says, watching the troubled man fumble for his car keys and wallet.

“Go now to airport, yes?” Roman says to Sherlock.  “I don’t know what am I doing.”

***

"Pressure bands?  All right."

"Mhm."

"We're all right."

"Explosive decompression, John.  Infarction, in several seconds at the most."

"All right."

"There are three ex-convicts, two clearly know each other, the third has more --"

John has his mouth pressed over Sherlock's before he can complete his warning, if that's what he'd planned it to be.  He bites John a little by accident, which John assures him is the only pain _he_ will be feeling, for one.  "We'll take them all down," John whispers.  "If need be, which there won't be.  Close your eyes and relax, beautiful.  When we get through all this we're going to go straight home, wash up and eat something, and --"

"Boring."

"And...I plan to have you just after that.  Boring?"

"Oh."

"You'll tell me exactly how after we land.  Hmm?  In the shuttle."

Sherlock could hardly imagine a better travel companion if he tried.  While he is unable to relax, his mind is at least more pleasantly occupied and John has a moment of peace when he can close his eyes and -- breathe.

"See.  Twenty minutes left.  And have you thought it through?" John asks as the plane whines downward in its descent over England.

"I have," Sherlock replies.

"So have I.  Oh, hear?  Need to fasten it, love."

"Not that it makes a shred of difference from a statistical --" Sherlock hisses.

"Are you fastening that belt or do I have to resort to -- groping -- hey, now.  Stop that," John whispers as Sherlock shifts his hip and bumps John’s hand against his crotch.

"Jesus.  I'm supposed to -- what."

Sherlock starts snickering. "Take me home with you."

"Will do.  Will definitely do.  _Behave_."

Once they have settled back in at the flat and eaten all the sandwiches Roman had sent along, they have a shower and John pushes Sherlock up the stairs to his room; they fall into John's bed, a tangle of arms and kisses.  They are glad to be home and more than ready to be _themselves, together_ , as Sherlock has sometimes expressed it.  

 _"God, yes.  Beautiful -- you -- hmmmm, warm...."_ John stares into Sherlock’s eyes for a moment.  _"This,"_ he mumbles.  _"I wanted you -- oh my God -- "_ When he looks down in time to see the last of his cock slide up into that intensely tight hole he groans, soaked in complete, mindless bliss as Sherlock rides him; he rubs his warm hands over his friend's thighs and cups his knees affectionately, smiling up at him with his entire heart, trying to express  _you do this, you, and never doubt it, only you._

***

_Will be in 3.  SH_

Sherlock makes and subsequently disregards a mental note to return his friend’s _Brahma_ key.  He lets himself into the artist’s flat and his mind leaps into deductive mode as the man rises stiffly from his desk to greet him.  

“Good morning, Alex,” Sherlock says, shaking his head censoriously at his friend’s tousled appearance.  Alex’s hair is tufty and wayward and his cheeks and chin are covered in a three-day shadow of auburn stubble, quite in contrast to the sandy gray of his ( _mussed_ ) hair ( _Alex is never unshaven.  Mussed?_ ).  His eyes are puffy ( _crying, several times_ ) and his nose swollen; _pressure marks from magnifying glasses for sustained work._   _Busy_.  _Expecting no one.  Shirt seams turned to the outside -- over-wrought nerves.  Overworked?_  Alex’s desktop is covered in documents, plans and sketches and there is a large, detailed ink and watercoloured cutaway drawing taped down to its surface of what appears to be a water wheel.  

“Back safely from your trip, then, that’s good.  Lovely that you’ve come.  Let me by.”  Alex pats Sherlock’s arm.  “I’ll go and put on the kettle for us,” Alex says, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. 

 _Circulation poor; seated for hours.  Dehydrated._   _Throat irritated by mucus -- from crying, not speaking._ Sherlock follows Alex into the kitchen.  _Failed encounter?  No.  Coat and shoes have not been worn out of doors for three days during the rains.  Nobody else has been by.  The mat in front of the door --_   “So.  As you can see.  A sort of last-minute bit of madness, here, I’ve scarcely been able to breathe,” Alex continues, and opens his refrigerator to remove a milk carton.  Sherlock blocks it open with his foot.  He glances around inside and slams it shut.

“Since when do you allow that much food to lie about?  You’ve been crying.  Yet you’re working on a project which is certainly not for the municipal waterworks.  He hasn’t told you off, and you wouldn’t fall apart over that, it’s more.  I’d say signs of heartbreak but --”

“You might just ask, dear,” Alex says calmly.  “No need to deduce it all when there’s no secret to be had in it.” 

Sherlock grits his teeth.   _True._

“I’ve had plenty of time to think these last several days and it’s all very much my own doing, I can see that now.  My fault,” Alex mumbles, shaking his head.

Sherlock blows out a breath impatiently and knits his eyebrows.  “What happened, from the beginning.  Like John, you tend to try and tell stories ending-first.”

“Your brother has asked me to submit an entry to a competition.  A design for an expo room in China.”

 _Dozens of small, incomplete sketches.  Drafts.  Elevations of an exhibition hall and a tender description were placed near a brown envelope with an “N” (Nussbaum) written in fountain pen.  Mycroft’s “N”.  Of course, stupid.  Slipping!_   “Reasonable.  So he invited you for...tea, and gave you an absorbing assignment.”

“Yeah.  Tea and lime biscuits --”

_Flemish lime-glazed biscuits!  For God’s sake, Mycroft._

“Well.  The project is a welcome distraction, as it happens,” Alex adds.

“From what -- oh.  Yes.  He told you something else, _which_ has driven you to quit shaving?”

Alex shakes his head and looks away as the kettle pops and roars to life nearby. 

“Has my brother driven you to despair with an account of the wars he plans to incite this spring?  Ignore him, he only starts half of what he sets out to.”

“Sherlock.  You see, Jens has taken an interest in someone.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and absorbs that as Alex takes out cups and pulls the lid off a teapot, saying, “Mycroft informed me of it, I wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not, but I’ve confirmed it with colleagues, and he’s quite right.”  Alex looks up at Sherlock.  “Absence -- well.  Hasn’t made anyone’s heart fonder, we might say.”

“ _Recovery._  Not absence,” Sherlock says with annoyance.

“Well.  ‘Call it what you like, the outcome is the same’.  Isn’t that your line, Sherlock?” Alex spoons loose-leaf tea into a cylindrical filter and plunks it into the pot, which he fills with boiling water.  “Ah, I might have waited a moment,” he mumbles.  “Sorry.  Right, I’ve singed the flavour, now.”

“You’re disappointed?”

“Well.  I’m better than on Friday, I hardly know what I said to your brother near the end.”

“Mhmm.” 

“He’s always been partial to me, at least a little, but he has never tried to kiss me, also my fault.”

Sherlock huffs, “Disambiguate.  You are talking about Jens, or I assure you I _will_ vomit.” 

Alex smiles a bit at that.  “Jens,” he confirms, setting out a sugar bowl.  “You know, Sherlock.  I didn’t start anything, for _reasons_.  You _know_ why.  I couldn’t have slept with him, if he’d -- well.   _When_ should I have said it?”  Alex groans.  “After you brought him to visit me in hospital, he didn’t -- he was -- mortified.  He cared.  But then everything changed.  Perhaps I’ve changed?  I’m sure I have.  Oh, I don’t know!  Have I?  I have?”

“You of all people, not coming forward about the state of your heart,” Sherlock says, pointedly.  “He valued your sincerity.  You tripped up.”

“I couldn’t find a moment, or a way.”

“I myself found out about your heart issues from _Mycroft_ , as I’m sure you’ve been able to surmise by now, consider _that."_

“Mycroft told you about the state of my health?  Then?  Oh, Lord, I won't ask.  Well.  What does it _matter_.  Horatio is -- well, everything I am _not_ , in fact.”

“Yes.  Which I believe is why Jens would choose him for a worthless fling.  To repeat some of his worst mistakes from his years with his nutter of an ex, Peter, for good measure.  People are unfathomable, Alex, complete idiots, why join them?  Give me that, it’s heavy.”  Sherlock pours the tea for them and sets to sweetening his own.  He is quite put out and will need to cogitate further on the subject, for certain.

“Oh, I don’t -- wish any of that on him.  I -- oh, Lord, I can’t understand why --” Alex is saying.

“Don’t try.  Show me your project.”  Sherlock has already turned away and headed for the drafting table.  Alex drifts behind him.  “Ah.  Nice.”

“I’ve just finished colourising it.  It’s a water mill,” Alex says from the doorway, leaning against the framing and rubbing the side of his head against it.  He appears to have a headache.  “Well.  You can see that much.  It refers to the form of our English mills but also the ancient Chinese mills used in the Han Dynasty to power smelting furnaces, except that mine will be part of a commentary on the need for sustained water in key industries and a brief history of its municipal maintenance in England.  It would be mounted so that the blades pass down through plate glass and wooden flooring.  See, it is large enough that several children can get inside -- Lord, I’m not making sense.  Sorry.  See, children, or _children_ like us, can get inside.  So it’s like a large hamster wheel, and people can run inside of it.  It turns slowly and powers a dynamo, which sends a series of lights through glass pipes in different shades depending how long they spin it, which will also glow in tiny diodes -- through the -- glass walls.”  Alex pauses long enough that Sherlock glances over at him.  “Glass walls, printed in my drawings, around the room.  The children would play and light the pictures for their parents so the adults could actually have an ambient moment to look at it all and read it.  At least stay a while and shop, perhaps for toys and gadgets.  So.  Waterworks in England.  And the plates that are  mounted as blades would be lit from inside and the entire piece encased in glass so that nobody would be crushed by them.  They have textures and images that would cover the ceiling with patterns that look like running water and fish, so the children -- I -- I’m quite tired, I can’t even say if this makes sense as a design anymore.  I'm not -- a designer.”

“Alex, sit.”

“But I’m sure the children would adore it, and bring their families in.”  Alex rubs his forehead and nose. 

“You’re tired, calm yourself.”

“Yeah, I’m all in, really.  This clicking sound, I abhor this valve.  Sherlock, I’m --”

“It’s first class work.  Well done.”

“Thanks, I certainly hope so.” Alex blows at the steam from his teacup. 

He and Sherlock retreat to the living room and seat themselves on Alex’s sofa.  They sip in silence for several minutes as Sherlock surveys the room.  “We won’t paint,” Sherlock affirms.

“No, in fact I need to return all of this to your brother.  This afternoon, preferably, or tomorrow morning.”

“We might start by scraping that off your face.”  Sherlock gestures loosely toward Alex's head.

“Ha, yeah, sorry, I look frightful, I know.  Now, how was your time in Lithuania?” Alex asks.

“Another day.  You’ve no doubt got a straight razor of your Uncle Henry’s, haven’t you?” Sherlock bares his teeth in a grin.

“I do.  Why?  Oh, dear.  That smile of yours, stop it.  You’re _scaring_ me.”

“No I’m not.  You’d scare yourself, slicing your own face to shreds, look at your hands dancing with that cup.  You can hardly hold it.”

“I’ll be all right.” 

“I’ll do it.”

“Whaaat!” Alex practically howls.  “Are you planning to go undercover as a barber, or?”

“Boring, already have.  The _things_ they blather about.  Off-putting.  The razor.”

“Oh, Lord -- you want to try and shave John with a straight razor -- and I’m your laboratory rabbit?”

“What makes you think I haven't shaved John?  The razor.” 

Once Sherlock has convinced Alex he does not intend to slash his throat (at least purposely), the artist leans back in a kitchen chair and lets Sherlock lather his face and neck in a bay shaving soap.  “Now,” Sherlock says, brandishing a vintage tortoise-shell-handled blade and a hot washcloth.  “Don’t _speak_ ,” he crows, in a devastating imitation of Mycroft’s voice.  “I’ve every reason to _believe_ you are in _grave_ danger, it’s _far_ _worse_ than I’d _anticipated_.  Oh, _yes!_   Turn -- yes.”  Sherlock smiles and drops his tone to his own.  “My brother, Alex, does not _share biscuits_.  This is the man who left his five-year-old brother in a market in Istanbul to avoid sharing a tuft of flossed halva.  Rose scented.  I shall not forgive him, it smelled heavenly.  Good, turn again, yes.  And later, he...mm.  Up?  Yes.  He.  Left said small child, in the middle of _Chandni Chowk_ in Delhi.  Turn.  Yes.  To...gamble at cups for him while he munched down an entire sack of _laddu_ balls in an alleyway.  In Cairo, he ditched me for a handful of date-sugar sticks, though I was the one,” he mutters peevishly, “who haggled that entire time for an onyx _sekhmet_ to give our Mum.  The one in our living room at Baker Street.  Chin up.  Yes.  The _biscoito_ incident in Lisbon shall go unmentioned, as will the tale of my _Mozartkugeln_ in Salzburg.”  Sherlock lifts the blade from Alex’s upper lip, wiping it against the cloth, and glances appraisingly at his work.

“A regular World War over sweets,” Alex remarks.  “I’m not entirely surprised, for whatever reason _that_ may be.”

“I will avenge those chocolates soon, in March I’m taking John to Salzburg.  But.  My point?  Mycroft has _never_ offered a biscuit to John.  And the last time he was forced to offer me sweets, I was still in primary school.  Well.  Did you take it?”

“What?”

“The biscuit.  Did you take it?”

“I couldn’t have eaten a thing,” Alex says, his eyes watering up.  “So no, I did not take a biscuit.”

“Pity, we might have shared it.”  Sherlock’s smile fizzles at the corners of his mouth; he is missing John, who had overslept and rushed out to the clinic in a panic.

“You’re graying at the temple,” Alex says.

“Indeed.  Yet you won’t stop talking.” 

Alex smiles at that.  A few more scrapes and references to lost sweets and Alex emerges a new man, with only one minor nick near his left ear.  Sherlock has not managed to broach the subjects to Alex that he'd planned to; several rather difficult talks are thus left for another day.

“One more thing, Sherlock, choose me something to wear, I can’t think straight at all, and my favourites are in the wash.  Would you?  Thank you very much.  Oh, mercy, I have got to get through this meeting somehow....”

Alex leaves his flat shortly after Sherlock, looking dandy enough that he has nearly lost the urge to cry at the sight of himself in the mirror. 


	29. A top-up

Sherlock pretends to read with interest while John pecks at his laptop keyboard with two fingers and his left thumb, sighs frequently, sips tea as a sort of punctuation to the ideas he is trying to express, nods absently and periodically glares out the window.  Blogging.  His eyes are tired, Sherlock notes, but that is due to a nightmare he'd had at three that morning, after which he'd read or paced the flat until four thirty.

_It’s been a while since I’ve been on here.  But the papers today are all running a story about Alexander "Sasha" Madurk, whose body has finally been positively ID’ed by two labs.  You might remember he was pulled out of a septic tank recently at an abandoned property in suburban Manchester.  This, after he was missing for two whole years.  It turned out that his so-called friend led him there one night and pushed him in after an argument over a girl.  Later, that “friend” made up a story that Madurk left the country and everyone believed it because the missing man had withdrawn almost all his savings from the bank.  Sherlock reconstructed the events of the night of the crime and led the police to the septic tank without even having the benefit of the newest statements and confessions from Madurk’s four friends.  In fact, almost everything you are reading now in the papers about that case happened thanks to Sherlock.  None of the reports I have seen mention Sherlock’s contribution, though.  It isn’t a comfortable fact, is it, that the police washed their hands of the man’s disappearance soon after, when he was drowned in sewage, right under their noses.  Especially since the police has recently made a move to limit their cooperation with independents, with results like decreased effectiveness, which we all know about.  It’s a move I strongly disagree with, like many people.  Because while I have met plenty of very good officers in our police force, every lead helps.  Especially in cases like this one, where everyone but family has given up looking and given up hoping.  The sad thing is, nobody knows how long that body would have remained undiscovered if Madurk’s parents hadn’t sought help privately from Sherlock.  They were hoping to find their son somewhere in Europe.  I truly feel for them, because today they have absolute confirmation that the body really is their son’s.  At least there is closure.  Yet, how many people have unresolved cases that are sitting on a shelf like the engagement ring the dead man bought for his girlfriend, which nobody saw, except Sherlock?  Many, I’m sure.  Is an extra pair of eyes really so difficult to allow when it comes to looking for the truth?  That is the real question we should be asking right now._

***

“It’s been four months since our last session, John,” Ella points out.  “What’s brought you here?”

“I’ve.  Yeah.  Been having some issues.  Uhm.  Hmm.”

“Take your time.”

“It’s with.  Anxiety.  And it’s been getting worse, should talk it out.” 

“Good.  From your point of view, what does the problem seem to be?”

“There isn’t a clear problem.  Well, no.  It’s actually that I think _I’m_ the problem, it comes from me.”

“Has something in particular led you to draw that conclusion?”

“Yeah.  I mean, I can’t see the solution.  That’s why I decided to come in.”

“I see.  So let’s back up.  The last time we saw one another, you had lost a friend to a terminal illness.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, that still -- matters a lot.  A hell of a lot.  But this is something else.”

“From the beginning then, John.  Where does the problem seem to have started?”

“It -- uhm.  I’m in a relationship.  You remember my best friend, Sherlock.  We’ve moved on to a relationship.  Emotional, everything.  And, sexual.  We’re together.”

“Does this change in your life coincide with the anxiety you were referring to?” Ella asks, leaning forward over her notepad.

“Nnno.  Our relationship started before Jim Barrows died.  No.  Not -- exactly.  It’s -- different.  You see, actually.  Uhm.  I haven’t talked about this yet, to anyone, so.  I mean, any more than if someone asks me, like, ‘are you together’, and I say that yeah, we are.  Or, yeah, we’re _still_ together.  That’s usually it.  That things are _still_ going.  People don’t always believe me.  I mean, they don’t believe that I want to be in a relationship with him.  I think a lot of people in the beginning were looking at him like he’s someone who can’t have a relationship, like, whose focus doesn’t include anyone else.  And it’s so wrong.  So _off_.  Or they don’t really see why I would want him instead of a woman, but.  They accept it, people who know us.”

“So are you affected negatively by other’s perceptions?”

“Not -- no, not really that much.  Only sometimes.” 

“This was an issue earlier in your friendship, as I recall.”

“Yeah.  It was.  At that time there was really no basis.  For it.  Uhm.  I started having feelings a long time ago.  Feelings for him.  But it didn’t seem -- I wasn’t counting on it ever happening.  And I couldn't really know how it would go, at all.  If it would work, for either of us.  Enough that I put it all aside.  I didn’t want anyone to make fun of who he is, make fun of me, and him, and it bothered me when someone sort of suggested things that weren’t there.” 

“I understand from what you’re saying that pressure from your acquaintances and friends causes anxiety.”

“No, it doesn’t.  I meant it _used_ to bother me, when nothing was actually going on.  Between us.  But I won’t deny it, now -- he’s my partner, and that’s.  It. No, see.  I was just trying to say that I don’t really talk to anyone about this.  I don’t usually _need_ to, it’s fine.  I mean, my relationship with him makes far more sense than what I’ve had, before, with other -- people.  With women, I’ve.  It’s.  I’m not saying that I’ve found my ‘true’ sexuality, or something.  No.  It’s not about that.  It’s still me, I’m still myself.  In fact, I thought it would be more of an issue at first, but it’s turned out that it doesn’t actually bother me.”

“Which point doesn’t bother you?”

“That my partner is my best friend. A man.”

“Okay.  Please continue.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve magically discovered something _new,_ about myself.  See.  He and I both just wanted to move it forward.  Sort of assumed the other didn’t want to and then it came out that we both actually want to take things further.  Be closer.  And I think that’s what we need.  I don’t think I -- actually, this is part of my problem.  I don’t think I could ever.  Uhm.  I’ve got to where I -- uhm.  I can’t really imagine things any other way.  Hmmm.  I’m sorry.  Hah.”

“Take a moment.  Breathe.” 

“Yeah.  It’s.  Got to where it’s causing some.  Issues.  Okay?  This is it.  I think I’m.  Uhm.  Afraid that something will happen, and.”

“What sort of things might happen, John?”

“In life.”  John’s throat is tight inside.  “Things.”   _Don’t lose it._

“I understand that you are anxious about your relationship, at a more general level?”

“Yeah.”  _Don’t.  Lose.  It._

“Are you concerned that your partner doesn’t feel the same way you do?”

“He does feel the same way.  About all of it.”

“John.  If you could magically change the things that are worrying you about the safety of your relationship, what would it involve?”

“Well.  Not much.  I mean, not much that I have any control over.  Well.  Just a minute.  I mean, we’re -- happy.  We are.  I can actually say for the first time in my life that I am _happy_.  Simple as that.  _He_ gave me that.  But.  I -- _really_ need it to stay like that.”

“Is there anything in particular that threatens that happiness right now?” 

“Yeah.  Well.  See, he isn’t _sick_ , just sort of.  Has some health issues.  Nothing terribly serious right now, just an additional risk-group-sort-of issue.  And.  I’m the doctor, yeah?  Uhm.  And I plan to keep things under control, right?  I _should_ be able to.  But.  The thing is, I didn’t see it, in the beginning.  Because he knows how to hide things, pain, discomfort, concerns, and if he wants to spare me, he can hide it all, uhm, perfectly well.”

“Would communicating with him about your worries help ease the feeling that you might miss something important?”

“Yeah.  We do talk about it, now.  But I have this almost _constant_ thing, now.  Of not seeing what I should, that he’ll get sick.  Sicker, I mean, that something will happen and I won’t see it in time.  I can’t jump around him like a nurse for the rest of our lives, but if something happened.  If something happened to him.  I’d lose my mind.  I can’t --”

“Take your time.”

John shakes his head.  His nose is congested.  _Stop it.  Stop.  It._

“This could be an extension of anxieties about growing older and also encountering uncomfortable changes,” Ella suggests.

“There is that.  Maybe.  For now, I’m better than ever, really.  Good diet.  Now.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.”

“Yeah.  Just something, all in my head.”

“Your distress might be something deeper than fears of growing _older_.  What do you think?”

“Deeper.  Age isn’t the thing, no.”

“Let’s go back for a moment, John.  From what you said, it sounds to me like you want to have more control over what happens to your partner’s health because you see illness as a real danger to your shared happiness.”

“Yeah.”

“This makes you anxious because you want to uphold that relationship.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“That is a very natural source of anxiety.”

“Yeah.” 

“Would you describe your mood as steady?  Or do you experience a roller-coaster of emotions on that point?”

“Steady, but it’s _always_ sort of there.”  John clears his throat.  “Well.  There was something.  An incident.”

“What type of incident?” 

“An assault.”

“What sort of assault, John?”

“With a -- firearm.  I don’t want to -- go into it.  Much.  Uhm.  It was part of a case.  It.  Look, there was an accident.”

“How many instances are we talking about?”

“Yeah.  Can I start over?  I think there’s -- more -- to this.  Right.  Uhm.”

“Yes, of course, let’s back up a bit.”

“I had a -- okay.  Last autumn there was an accident.  I had an accident.  I stepped out into the road, and, I got knocked down.  By a mirror on a cab.  At a crossing.  Nothing -- uhm.  It was minor, all things considered.  Grade two concussion, a few scrapes, my smartphone fared the worst.  Hah.  So.  We -- Sherlock and I -- were together all the time while I was in recovery.”

“How did he initially respond to the event?” 

“He wasn’t there.  He found out.  Then he did everything.  For me.  _Everything_.  The first several days were hard.  I couldn’t stand up straight without nausea and I couldn’t walk without help, and he practically carried me everywhere, helped me with everything, better than any of my nurses could.  To where it was, seriously, I -- I saw this person who has actually -- uhm.”

“It’s all right, a little at a time.”

“Nobody _ever_.”

“Take a moment to collect your thoughts.”

“Yeah.”

“I understand that he was very helpful to you.  So now can you unpack the ways it affected you positively?” 

“He was amazing.  So patient, never let me feel like he was fed up with it, though he must have been.  Jesus.  He did everything.  Learned to cook, for us.  To help me.  Because I used to do it, now he still does almost all of it.  He quit _working_ , too.  _His work._  Quit doing much of anything else, _everything_.  Like the whole world stopped.  Just for me.”  John sighs shakily.   “Yeah.  It’s one thing to be together, but.  That.  Total focus.  Caring.  Look.  I had a girl who couldn’t -- uhm.  I was engaged.  Remember?”

“Yes, I recall.” 

“Even _saw her_ recently.  But.  Doesn’t -- matter.”

“There’s no hurry, John.”

“Yeah.  She -- ahh.  Yeah.  Couldn’t even be around me when I was having issues.  And we were supposed to _marry_.  Have a _family_.”

“Were you reminded of her during your recovery?”

“Hard not to be.”

“Let’s go forward from there.” 

“I mean, when someone doesn’t care for you anymore, as a patient, as a bloody invalid?  She up and left, remember?  She _laughed._   So, nobody got to see that again, right?  And it -- fff -- botched up so many things, trying to hide -- uh -- sleep disruption and things, from women.  At night.”

“You felt that you couldn’t show weakness because it would push your partner away?”

“Yeah.  Why wouldn’t it.”

“Continue, please.”

“When she saw me after I came home from -- well, you remember, right?” John looks away.  “It could have been a hell of a lot worse, though, the street accident, I mean.  Uhm.  Yeah.  It was a good fall.  Lucky.  But. If it hadn’t been?  I know he would do _anything_.  Carry me through the rest of _my bloody life_.  That’s the thing.  _Jesus Christ_.”

“Is there something painful to you, in that fact?”

“No.  No.  It’s good.  Just.  Very good to have that.  To know.  I -- sorry.  Uhm.  I meant that if something went wrong, I know he’d do anything for me.  Like I would.  Not just a one-time gesture or risk for the hell of it.  But he’d _stay by_.  _Me_.  You see, a real friend.  We have this.  It’s still like that, all the time.  He cares.  For me.  Sorry, I can’t.  Can’t, uhm.  Sorry.”

“These are real feelings, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, John.”

“Yeah.  Very real.”

“Let’s focus on the fear, itself.  Has it intensified since your accident?”

“Sort of, yeah.  When you have that with someone, you.  You know, want to keep it.  Nobody was ever like that, not even -- my wife.  She didn’t -- sort of do some of these basic things.  Didn’t even cook, really.  But.  She didn't really ask what I think about -- things.  Things I care about.  I don’t want to pull all that up right now.  But.  He’s someone I can grow old with.  God willing, you know, you can look ahead.   If he stays well.  And if I do, too.  See.   _Jesus_.  That’s _it,_ right there, see?  I _have_ to keep him well.  There wasn’t ever anyone else, who could understand.  What happened.  And what I am.  You know, inside.  The war.  His death, and.  My _wife_.  Hah.  And, that understands what I need or what I want to give them.  What I have to give, you know.  To give someone else.  So, here I am with Sherlock, instead of one of _them_ , and I can’t imagine things any other way, even for a day, and _I’ll be damned if anyone or anything changes that_ , I wouldn’t _stand it_.”

“Your relationship is very precious to you.”

“Yeah.” 

“Was there something that seemed to endanger that relationship, more recently?”

 _Mycroft might hear about this._   John clenches his teeth.  He breathes and then explains,  “Well, so there was this.  Uhm.  Explosion.”

“You mentioned an assault?”

“Yeah.  It was that.  I -- can’t say a lot about it, but there was an explosion.  An accident.  See.  And I wanted to -- I wanted to touch the thing, I mean the thing that exploded right afterward.”

“Did you see the explosion?”

“It was at pretty close range, yeah, four feet behind me in a closed room.”

Ella blinks.  “Continue, please.”

“Hah, yeah.  And Sherlock distracted me, putting himself -- in the line of fire.”

“Of the assailant?”

“Yeah.  Sherlock.  Uhm.  Like he always did.  And he’s -- this time, I -- uhm.  This time, it was like -- with.  Uhm.  I can’t go into that, but.  I felt.  Hmm.”

“Take a moment if you need to.”

“No.  I felt.   Like if.  Ha.  Yeah.  Like, I was about to lose him.”

“And how did that affect you?”

“I couldn’t feel my own body, I could have done things and not even known it.”

“The possibility of loss was very threatening to you.”

“Yeah.  Very.  After it was over I completely blanked.”

“Blanked, meaning, more specifically...”

“I thought he was hurt, in the accident.  For a minute.  I don’t know what came over me, but I was a bloody mess.  Couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything, vomited later and had some -- other problems.  It hasn’t been like that in a long time.  And I guess I’m not okay.”

“The danger was very real and your feelings, then and now, are understandable.”

“Hmm.”

"Did you talk to him about your feelings after the accident?"

"What do you say.  'Thank you for making yourself a bloody target, again, for keeping me from blowing myself up', for.  For.  Damn it.  This is greater than me, I can't.  We talked a little, I mean, there wasn't much to _say_.  I just want him safe, and he wants the same for me."

“Do you and Sherlock often find yourselves in physical danger now, like you did before this phase in your relationship?”

“No.  That's really an exception.  With the explosion, I mean.  He’s sort of -- not taking cases like he used to.  Actually, he’s home most of the time working on projects but not really for Scotland Yard, no.”

“Nonetheless, does he exhibit risk-taking behaviours?”

“No, actually, he’s very calm.  He’s stopped dissecting, as well.  He doesn’t bring home anything from the morgue, or anything like that.  When we got more intimate, he stopped the dissecting.  Maybe a coincidence.”

“So he is not seeking out danger, or risky situations.”

“No.  Nothing dodgy, at all.  He’s different.”

“And you are not seeking danger or risky situations, either?  Is that correct?”

“I’m not looking for trouble.  No.  The explosion was not something we -- expected.  We are both sort of.  We don’t -- this is -- hard.  I think we’re both sort of -- at a point where we need to be together without all that.”

“And the risk-taking has subsided as a result?” 

“Yeah.  Maybe there is a connection, yeah.  Now I -- uhm.  Actually, I feel anxious when he goes somewhere, so risk-taking doesn’t come in to play, no.  I wouldn’t tolerate it for long.”

“Where is he when you are feeling anxious about his absence, John?” Ella asks.

“Like if he goes to another city, overnight.”

“I see.  Does he go away often?”

“No, but sometimes he goes.  I try to join him when I have time to.  Or sometimes, when I’m at work.  I -- well, I miss him.  He misses me, too.  It’s sort of -- I want to just go home and check.”

“Do you go home, on occasion, to check?”

“No.  It’s too far, for one.  I can’t just up and leave my patients.  But.  Yeah.  It’s irrational, I know.  I’m not doing it.”

“You’ve never left work for that reason.”

“No, I haven’t.  Well, we sort of text.  He misses me, too.  But it’s.  Uhm."

"Take a moment to breathe." 

"Yeah.  The other thing is, he’s really able to take care of everything.  Himself.  I mean, better than -- some commandoes.  Hah.”  John tries to smile but he is close to tears for the third time in this hour-long block; he has just felt a text buzz in his jacket pocket.  Ella seems to have heard it, as well.

“If you _did_ go home, what would you want to check, John?” she asks.

“If everything is safe.  Hmmm.  I mean, if he’s there, and everything is -- secure.”

“So what I’m hearing sounds like separation anxiety.  Due to previous traumatic disconnections with loved ones.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s an important starting point.  There are steps you can take that might ease the anxiety you feel.”

“Whatever it takes, I can’t have this going on all the time if I want to live a normal life.” 

“Communication is key.  It sounds to me like you're on the right path to opening communication with your partner, which is an encouraging direction."

"Hmm."

"It’s important to let your partner know you sometimes feel this way, and from what you’ve said, he is aware?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s focus on what you said a moment ago, then.  When you refer to living a normal life, what areas would you identify first as those most in need of change?”

“I have sort of mixed feelings about Sherlock at home.  Not working, I mean.  Like I said, he isn’t taking risks but that’s partly or maybe mainly because he isn’t working.  And the work was always the most important part of his life and -- I feel sort of -- I _want_ him to work.  But I also realised just recently that I like having him safe, away from that.  So I have a conflict, there.  Does any of this make _sense_ at all?  Jesus.”

***

“Hey, love.”

“John.”

“It’s good to see you.”

Sherlock's eyes start flicking over John's entire body.  He sits up.  “It’s good to see you, too.”

Following Ella’s counsel to the letter, John is about to attempt to ‘openly communicate his general concerns and signal his emotional needs through affirmation’.  He feels like a twit on the one hand, going through motions that feel far too self-evident ( _I mean, aren’t they, though?_ ), but he wants to try, at least once.  When he looks at Sherlock in front of him, wrapped tightly in his russet dressing gown with his hair carefully combed off his face so he can see what he is doing on several glass slides, it is far harder than it had seemed on the Tube, on the way home.  And it appears Sherlock is becoming increasingly curious.  Keen, in fact. 

“Oh.  I wrote up Manchester.  It’s in the papers, about the body in the septic tank, the results from forensics are all in,” John says.  “I saw it at the newsstands.”

“Yes.  I saw it online.”

“They’d never have found him, love, without your help.”

“Well.  An exaggeration.”

“Brilliant piece of work, I'm -- proud.”

“Mm.”

“Right.  Look.  I want to...talk to you about something.”

“Yes?”  Sherlock’s eyes sharpen and he watches John’s face closely.

“Uhm.”  (The weight of all that attention is not comforting in the least.)  “I’ve had some problems after this -- you know.  The -- th -- uhm.  Vilnius.”

“Mhm.”  _Which part?  Put off?_

“Thank you for your texts.  I like them,” John says, carefully.

“Okay.”  Sherlock has tensed perceptibly.

“Sometimes I miss you during the day.”

“I miss you during the day, too.”

“Sometimes I even want to come home.  Just see you.”

“You might, John.”

John sighs a bit.  Relieved. “I might.  Just for a little of you.”

“ _Little?_ ”

“Hey, now.” John bends down and kisses Sherlock’s temple; Sherlock leans into it.  “Thank you for always bringing me lunches on Wednesdays.”

“I’m partial to Wednesdays.”

“Are you, then?”

“For that reason, in fact.”

 _You do feel it._   “You are so dear to me, I want you to know that.”

“Thank you.”

“I love you.  Madly.  And.  Sometimes I think about things, if you’re all right.  Even a siren, when I hear a siren.  Sometimes.  You know?  Just worry about safety, sort of.”   _I’m an idiot._

“Oh?” 

“Know what I mean, love?” John asks, seemingly unable to find a place for his hands, which he is rubbing over his hips and thighs as if they needed drying.  “The odds of.  You know.”

“Yes.” _During cases you have experienced twenty-six assaults with a firearm, knife or other deadly weapon, seventy percent of which occurred when I was within a three-yard radius._ Sherlock swallows.  Hard.   _Average external morbidities:  twelve thousand males per year in England.  Two thousand six hundred males take their own lives or die of complications of self-harm.  By hanging, one thousand six hundred fifty.  Fifteen males are killed by electrical current.  Thirteen hundred traffic accidents annually include male fatalities, of which two hundred sixty are male pedestrians; twenty-five annual deaths average among males struck by inanimate objects; an average of nine males annually are involved in drownings deemed accidental or inconclusive, in bathtubs at home; one hundred males a year are asphyxiated on food and beverages, and there are sixty stomach content drownings, most frequently involving alcohol poisoning._

“Need to stretch out.  Headache,” John says, turning away.

“You still have frequent headaches.  Schedule a follow-up with your neurologist friend Derek,” Sherlock tells him.

“It’s Darrell.  Not frequent, no.  I think it’s just nerves.  Or hell knows, maybe I need glasses?  Hm.”

“Doubtful, neither of your parents wore glasses and neither does your elder sister.  You hardly watch telly nowadays, you read without fatigue in low light conditions, you blink at the same rate you always have and your eyes track text and distant moving objects evenly.  Your cholesterol levels are in the norm, surely dropping of late as well, your diet is adequate in its vitamin A and E content, your sclera are clearer than they’ve ever been, there are no signs of bilirubin build-up in your conjunctivas which would be suggestive of endocrinal imbalances, no visible metal deposits, no apparent bulging due to hypertension,” Sherlock fires back so quickly that John -- quits blinking and gapes.  “And so on.”

“Uh, yeah.  I’ll call Darrell, sure.  Can’t hurt.  A cup of tea would do, actually.”

Sherlock smiles until the corners of his eyes crinkle.  “Rest, soldier, I’ll bring it in.”

“Thanks, beautiful.” 

“One measurement, slightly over twenty minutes.”

“Sure.” John rubs his chin.  “Good.” 

“Rest.”

"I wanted to finally put.  Uhm.  Put on our rings.  Again."

"Okay."

"Where are they?"

"Drawer."

“Yeah.  You -- joining me, after --?” The end of John’s tongue pokes out and he wets his lips a bit.

 _Nnnngh, erotic_.  “Yes.”  


	30. Capital

Nightmares are interfering with John’s sleep.  Anew.  And while they are mercifully faceless (mostly sounds and indistinct scenes), he is still startled awake when it counts most to be undisturbed, during the early morning hours.  Sherlock has also dreamed, of losing John in a coliseum of strangers, and of stacking bloodied torsos to block out cold wind from a small, open window at a remote prison-like location.  Both dreams, while objectively absurd, have overtaken all the quieter ones (of birds or lazily kissing John’s entire body, for instance) that had appeared of late.

John has again rushed out of the flat to work, after being unable to put himself together fast enough in the morning.  Even so, he has remembered to spoil his phoenix a little, at the risk of being considered off-puttingly sentimental.  Now inasmuch as Sherlock has always saved a few choice, derisive comments for _this_ day, and _those sorts_ of presents, he is pleased to find a little box of white-chocolate-and-red-peppercorn sweets under his microscope, with a handwritten note from John that says, _Bloody hot!!!_

                _Thank you.  SH_

_Hard to leave you this morning._

_Come home for lunch.  SH_

_You know I want to :)  What would we do?_

_Wrong question.  SH_

John smirks down at his phone.  _I’m about to get a bloody hard-on at work.  From a Valentine’s Day text from Sherlock Holmes._

He raps his fingertips on his desk and licks his lips.

_OK, love what are you wearing?  Ha ha._

_Wearing?  SH_

***

Like most younger siblings, Sherlock has constructed numerous theories over the years concerning his brother’s true genetic makeup.  One of them is given empirical support, he thinks, when the man suddenly arrives, mid-morning.  _Wants my sweets -- the sense of smell of the elephant along with its graces_ , Sherlock thinks to himself as the elder Holmes perches near the fireplace by John’s chair, glancing about with a mildly offended expression as he pivots his umbrella handle in his right palm.

The chances of Mycroft getting as much as a glimpse of Sherlock’s first-ever Valentine present are _nil, even if that assertion of improbability is illusory and rooted in my own personal preconceptions like most characterisations of nothingness or impossible-ness --_

“You’re not answering your phone.  You’ll come by tonight, of course,” Mycroft says.

“Of course,” Sherlock replies.

“I wanted to confirm.  Lest you be carried away in the moment by -- I can’t get it through my lips, it’s _hideous_.”

“ _Cupid_ ,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Please.  It’s -- _hellish_.”

“It is.”

Mycroft briefly updates Sherlock on the clean-up post-Vilnius, watching Sherlock’s reactions like a cobra, and asks for the name of the programmer who had created the second tunnel code.  _Nikita Nikita Nikita...nnnnnyet_.  Sherlock refuses with a smile, to which Mycroft averts his eyes and studies his own cuticles.

***

A brief encounter between John and a journalist on the way to an errand the day before has already turned into an online article; he receives word of it quite incidentally via Twitter, which he has absently checked on his phone while riding the Tube:

_Dr. John Watson:  ‘a fresh perspective is important’.  Crime blogger, army veteran and medical doctor John Watson talks to The Guardian’s Aimee Tarlington about the so-dubbed Manchester Cess Mess and the unsung centre stage role played by star detective Sherlock Holmes._

_Developments in the septic tank drowning of Alexander “Sasha” Madurk (†20) leave questions about police effectiveness.  June Foxston, the new director of UK independent crime watchdog agency PublicEyeOne, claims the police are not doing enough to “deter through success” these days, suggesting a significant rise in unsolved crimes is in store.   _

_Dr. John Watson, who has chronicled the crime-solving of London’s best-known sleuth Sherlock Holmes since 2010, describes Foxston’s comments as “sadly likely to come true” in coming months.  Watson, whose popular blog has brought a refreshingly authentic behind-the-scenes view of oft-troubled but successful cooperation between Holmes and the London Met, offers his insight:  “[Regarding] flexible cooperation between independent experts...one doesn’t substitute for the other but I think they can and should co-exist.”_

A lot has been left out but in fact he wishes it hadn’t been; when he starts searching about a bit he quickly finds a separate transcript on the journalist’s blog; he doesn’t bother to look at the several dozen comments listed below it:

_AT:  Doctor Watson, what are your thoughts on the future of police cooperation with independent experts, like private detective Sherlock Holmes?_

JW:  Maybe more flexible cooperation between independent experts and the police is a place to start.  One doesn’t ever substitute for the other but I think they can and should co-exist.  That’s it.

_AT:  Off the record, what’s Sherlock Holmes doing now that he isn’t as closely involved with police and crime solving work?_

JW:  Independent scientific research.  He is a scientist, after all.

_AT:  Holmes has staunchly refused to share his stance on recent reports about wrongful arrests.  Privately, what are his views on police effectiveness?_

JW:  You’d need to ask him personally.  I’m speaking for myself, here.

_AT:  So he does talk about it?_

JW:  I didn’t say that, did I.  And if this is about putting words in my mouth, we’re done.

_AT:  No, sorry, no.  I really need a quote from you on this.  What do you really think about the politics of the Met surrounding independent consultants?_

JW:  I think we’re here right now because of my recent blog post on what your colleagues call the ‘Manchester Cess Mess’.  Right?  Right.  And if you’ve read it, you know what I think.  Whenever there’s a clear lead that can be followed up, by whomever, it should be taken into account.  Within reason.  And why is it even called a ‘Mess’?  Before Sherlock came in and showed how many errors had been made and how much had been taken for granted in that disappearance, it was just another young guy who shoved off God knows where.  Right?  So.  Sometimes a fresh perspective is important, as we see.

_AT:  Thank you.  The silence on your blog before your newest Cess Mess post has left many of your followers wondering:  are you settling down?_

JW:  Settling down?  Is that sort of supposed to be related to me not writing?

_AT:  That’s what I’m asking, if it is related.  Or just a coincidence._

JW:  I’m a GP, meaning I’ve got a day job.  Plus the fact that Sherlock and I are not working on the load of cases we were in the past.  I think we’ve covered that part.

_AT:  Right.  And are you and Sherlock Holmes romantically attached?_

JW:  I don’t even blame you for asking, since Sherlock and I have both been linked to various partners in the media in recent months, and there’s been plenty of hearsay over the years, how many years, now?  Yeah, you’ve lost count, too.  Sure, we’re romantically attached.  Yeah.  To whomever you say we are, usually.

_AT:  Doctor Watson, please.  I didn’t mean to offend you._

JW:  It’s not even offensive.  Why.  But just ask yourself why this would still be news.  Yes, we are, and have been for some time.  Does that surprise anyone, anymore?

***

In the evening, Sherlock and John share a simple supper of tomato soup with tiny meatballs and potatoes fried in olive oil and breadcrumbs with herbs and garlic; neither of them mention the V-word but it hangs and crackles in the air.  Sherlock explains elegantly why most polymers are poor thermal conductors, John stares at him with unconcealed admiration, and they kiss over a glass of dessert wine from Bulgaria on the sofa.  “I’m going out later on,” Sherlock tells John, “to my brother’s.”  John, _always himself_ , darkens and folds his arms, pushing his lips out duckishly in annoyance, exactly as Sherlock would expect him to.

A bit later, however, John seems increasingly distracted, more than warranted by an interrupted evening; once the dishes are washed, he decides to peel a few vegetables to make a soup base for the next day and as Sherlock passes through the kitchen with his laptop under his arm, John clears his throat. “Listen,” he says with a short cough,  “Uhm.  It’s supposed to be a -- nice day, but I’ve got some shitty news, I’ve been trying to think of a way to do something about it.  Sit.”  Sherlock pauses to watch his soldier chuck a chunk of rutabaga without looking, across the table to the sink.  There are already far more peeled carrots than seem reasonable for soup and Sherlock is silently weighing the benefits of freezing the excess in chopped, semi-cooked form when John tosses the paring knife onto the table loudly and stands to rinse his hands. 

“What, John,” Sherlock says.

“Just.  Sit.”  (Another cough.) “We’re not opening the clinic.  I mean, not for a long time.  Will had planned to put up half of the money for the clinic, inheritance, you know.  Wanted to invest it.  So, he just let me know a few days ago.”

Sherlock leans on a metal framed chair.  “Living room,” he answers, and turns to go back to the sofa.  “Mmm.  When you had been drinking whiskey at the pub.  I am aware.”

“Right.  That.  He can’t.  Look, Sandra’s got ovarian cancer.  It’s well on.”

“Oh?”  Sherlock suppresses his satisfaction at having surmised most of that, because John looks quite disturbed now that he is putting facts to words. 

“Surgery and radiation ahead.  Yeah, so.  We’re not going to be able.  You know.  It’s over, for now.  Need to rethink things.  Uhm.  Maybe it was sort of a pipe dream.  I could join an existing private practice instead, that's probably where I’m heading, at this point.  I’m not entirely satisfied with the clinic, the management of funds, patients, and.  But.  It’s just that I wanted more control in it, you know?”

“Then you’ll have it.”

“Have what,” John says, wandering in to join Sherlock, where he puts an arm behind his friend’s shoulders.

“Your clinic.”

“Nah.  Not planning a heist with you.”

“Pity.”

“Hah.”

“No heist in the cards, John.  I listed the property in Lagrasse with a broker just over a week ago.” 

“But.  Uhm -- what?” John’s face has fallen:  literally every feature has gone completely limp.  “Why?”

“I received word yesterday afternoon that there are three initial offers, already, one of which is fifteen thousand euro below my minimum asking price.  Read, you can get the gist.”  Sherlock opens his laptop and logs into it rapidly, clicks at something, and flips it around on his leg toward John, who glances at an email in French.  He sniffs and glares toward the living room window, not having understood much, at all.  “It’s a matter of waiting for one high enough, soldier, I’ll accept it.  Obviously.  What.” 

“You’re really _selling_ it,” John says quietly.  He has started breathing softly and rhythmically through his nose.

“The goats will be removed.  The lease will be broken a bit prematurely, change of plans by the leasing party.  Timing.  Soldier, as daydreams go, it has been an attractive one, but it won’t happen.  I’ve already told you.”

“Sherlock.”  _Jesus Christ, not doing this._  “You could have said something.”

Sherlock frowns and tracks John’s low boil with his mercury eyes.  “I just did.”

“Look.  Was it _Mycroft’s_ idiot idea to sell that?” John asks, puffing out a small, helpless laugh and removing his arm.   

 _“_ My _‘idiot idea’_.  John.”

“Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, doctor, if that’s your concern.”

“What’s happened.”

“You’ll have capital.”

“Capital.”

“For your clinic, if you wish.”

“Cancel.  Just keep it.  For.  Uhm.” John looks around the room like he is scanning for a good change of topic, which he would then physically crush in his hands.  He is trying to control himself, and it isn’t coming to him.  He blows out a deep breath.  “Hmm.”

 _For my brood of descendants?_  “For whom.”  Sherlock blinks and grits his teeth.  “Pointless.”

“Just.  Not for me.”  _Shit._

Sherlock goes paler around the nose.  “The financial backing of a medical colleague is somehow more acceptable to you than _mine._ One could think your disappointment is directly connected to the _source of your funding!_ ” he rumbles.

“No!  It’s not that.”

“It’s a conceivable conclusion to draw, given your reaction!”

John unexpectedly shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment.  “Love, no.  No.  Let’s not -- no.  Don't want to argue.”

“It --“  _A single word can reach where the needle cannot.  Gently, stupid. He isn’t pleased.  Why isn’t he pleased?  He should be quite pleased._   “-- seems -- reasonable?”

“Yeah.  Uhm, so is this a family thing?” John asks.

“Yes, in a sense,” Sherlock replies.

“And, you’d like to have it out of your way.” John rubs his face.  _Find another place for you.  Jesus._

Sherlock puts a hand cautiously on John’s shoulder, petting his arm.  “In fact, Mycroft has Hinault’s papers and photographs,” Sherlock admits.  “I’ve seen next to none of them.”

“Hinault’s?  Why does your brother have them?” John asks, though he is quite sure he already knows.

“Acted on my behalf at one time, never returned them.  He showed them to -- our -- or shall we say, _his_ father, near the end of his life, as a viable explanation of my ‘un-Holmesian’ behaviour at Cambridge and in Sweden.  I’ve never been of any mind to look at all of them, and this property, in spite of its undeniably attractive location, has a gravity to it.”

“That’s -- uhm.”

“A source of strain on our ability to share the same air supply.  Most definitely,” Sherlock fills in.  “Mycroft would never admit to it, but there were signs that he did exactly that.”  He springs up from the sofa and moves to pick up his violin case, which he snaps open testily on the living room table.

“Just jealousy.  Led to that, you know,” John says.

“This is annoying.”

“Not to me.  Not at all,” John answers gently.

Sherlock rubs rosin on his bow, eyes already distant.

“So, why don’t you _get_ those things from him, sometime?” John asks.

“Mm.”

“What right --”

“The _botanical_ drawings,” Sherlock cuts him off. 

“Botanical drawings?“

“He wants the book of mine with the family’s watercolours, with my grandmother’s and Mum’s floral studies, you’ve seen it.”

“And you won’t give it to him.”

“ _Nnnnno_.”

“I suppose if he really wanted it, he’d have a pair of sharp-dressed goons come and extract it forcibly from our flat within minutes,” John mutters.

“He wants me to contritely _hand_ it to him,” Sherlock explains, raising his instrument and plucking at it, tuning with a frown deepening between his eyebrows.

“That’s bullshit.  Beyond normal sibling-shit.”

“Spoken by a man who excepting generic holiday texts hasn’t said or written a word to his own sister in nearly eleven months.  John.”

“Yeah, yeah.  I know,” John answers, rubbing his chin and standing up.

“You haven’t told Harry about our involvement.”

“No.  But.  That’s -- normal shit between _us_ , though, and besides, she _lied_ to me.  Again.  After selling our parents’ flat off to the _lowest bloody_ bidder, without even _telling_ me, I’d have.  Hmmm.”

“Thus you react to the sale of my property as if it were a personal insult though there are no clear parallels to be had whatsoever.  I need to think.”Sherlock glances at John and raises his bow to play; he has chosen variations on a piece by Liszt and his mind is already running over them.

“’Kay.  Sure.”  John turns away to go upstairs to quiet his nerves with a bit of folding and reading. 

***

Sherlock’s fingers, strong but very much out of practice, ache and burn by the time he has begun to miss John enough that he sets the instrument down and goes up to see him.  _Talk._  

John takes his friend into his arms without a word and opens his mouth under the pressure of Sherlock’s tongue.  Folded clothes be damned -- they’ve hit the floor in a heap.  But Sherlock is far more interested in John’s calf and knee, wrapped over his thigh so that they can feel the first stirring in each other’s bodies, as their kisses deepen.   (Correction:  the first stirrings in John’s body.)

“I miss things,” Sherlock says, breaking away from John’s lips and rubbing his cheek against the side of John’s head.

“Like what,” John replies.  “You don’t miss anything.  Ever, really.”

“Experience nostalgia, I meant.”

“Oh, miss, like, that.  Right.” 

“Annoying.”

“So, let it happen, love.”

“Pointless.”

“What’s pointless.”

“More like unchangeable, nontransferable, temporal, subjective, irrational.”  _Tedious!_

“It matters, though.  What do you miss?” John asks, wondering where the conversation is going.

“Well.  Concerning this evening.  With my brother.”

“Hmm?”

“My Mum died on this day.  Which should have no bearing whatsoever.  What rot, this is pointless.”

“No, it isn’t, not to me.  It’s okay to be affected.”  _Does this sound stupid?  Maybe not._   “For her, you know, it’s worth it to remember things.” John pets Sherlock’s hair near his ear. “Losing love, to death.  Its potential, cut off.  Nothing to share anymore.  Of course it’s hard.  Do you want to go, or visit -- somewhere?”

“No.”

“All right, beautiful.”

Sherlock swallows.

John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s neck and kisses his head.  “I love you, brilliant creature.”

“You sound like her.”

“We’d get on,” John smiles.

Sherlock turns toward John, face now blank of any expression.  “Anyhow.”

“Need anything?”

“Meaning?”

“Something before you go out?  Hmmm, love you.”  John rubs his lips over Sherlock's neck.

“Another time.  The body is not cooperating.”

“Later on,” John tells him and pets his cheekbone with a thumb, gently, and kisses it.

“I’m going to shower.  Move your leg aside?”

“Help you...heh.  A bit of badly-behaved _valet de chambre_?”

 _Nnnnngh!_ That is another of Sherlock’s favourite racy bedtime stories to date; if he were convinced he could focus...but he is _not_.  “Tempted, but no.  Another time, soldier, when you’ve thought of a new antic for him.”

“Can do,” John grins.  "Sure."

***

Sherlock and Mycroft have spent nearly every Valentine’s Day evening together in front of Mycroft’s hearth, at least briefly, for years; it is the one day a year when they speak of Mum more openly -- and not only to insult one another by invoking her preferences and wishes.  Sherlock finds he is anticipating a discussion about Hinault -- that doesn’t materialise.  Mycroft doesn’t appear to be in a combative enough mood, or perhaps he is concerned about maintaining at least one complete set of stemware.  The two brothers bicker over a few hors d'oeuvres which Sherlock is nearly unable to swallow. 

“When did it happen?” Sherlock finally asks more pointedly, folding his hands.

Mycroft rolls his eyes.  “And this is the part where I say, _when did what happen_.  Honestly, the dreariness of your ambiguities.”

“The realisation?  That you might prefer to pass the time by boring another person?”

Mycroft shakes his head and purses his lips.  “Oh, _please_.  As though tea --”

“Tea!  I can see it, now.  _Modi operandi_ , since you wouldn’t condescend to ask for a proper introduction, and you’d have no idea where to look for an acquaintance of your own.  Brilliant idea, Mycroft:  buttonhole _my_ friend, who ‘tolerates’ me -- “ Sherlock sneers, waving his hands with a flutter.  “Is that how it went?  The next bit, easy enough to imagine.  Test his loyalties for your own satisfaction, as you once did to John.  Disconcerting and misleading him completely.  Anything learnt, brother?  Indeed.  Alex is kind.  Well-intentioned.  Modest and inoffensive -- in contrast to many of his inbred peers with incomplete sets of molars, from families whose connections you admire!”

“You’ve clearly got nothing of _merit_ to say --” 

“Tolerable to look at, a decade younger than yourself, sharp enough to follow at least a fourth of what you are saying, yet foolish enough to think you are intriguing,” Sherlock has raised his voice far more than need be.  “Impressed by his pedigree and the location of his flat?  You’ve researched him quite carefully before.  And tracked the recent activities at Jens Lindberg’s architectural firm.  Overseeing the lavish refit of yet another central revenue office, were you, or orchestrating an intrigue to _break him_ so that he’d stay in and draw a pavilion for one of your blasted committees this week?”

“So irrational.  Even for _you_.”

“I wonder if you’ve told him about the under-secretary from Luxembourg who allegedly broke his neck while skiing at Chamonix, though he’d _removed_ his skis and left them with his poles and effects on a rock, which he threw himself from quite _deliberately_.  Next example?  The lady minister from Lisbon?” (Mycroft foams.) “Who -- supposedly -- stepped in front of a streetcar?  The Estonian translator’s mysterious breakdown after that UN conference?  Fortunately, Alex is not suicidal.”

“Isn’t he?  His presence is indeed less intrusive than expected, and we share a taste for a particular oolong.  Change of subject.” 

“For now, he is intensely unhappy.  If I find any evidence you had a part in it, because it is making him sick -- I'll hand it back.”

“So perversely aggressive.  You understand nothing whatsoever.  No surprise there,” Mycroft says, affecting a stifled yawn and flaring his nostrils.  “Besides.  I fail to see how Alexander would be negatively affected by international notoriety.  I have every reason to believe that he will win the competition, it’s bound to cheer him.”

“Bound to cheer him.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “Then again, what is international notoriety for?”

“True, ephemeral, indeed.”

Sherlock shrinks a bit inside at that. 

“Well, then.  Still going through the motions of selling off Lagrasse?” Mycroft asks, folding his hands.

“Not motions, _formalities_ ,” Sherlock responds, crossing his legs at the knee.

“ _Formalities_.  Yeeeesss.” 

“The right offer is bound to come my way,” Sherlock replies.

Mycroft hums.  “Waxing romantic.  How _you_.”

That is too much for Sherlock to bear.  “ _Shut_ _up._ ”

“Infuriatingly mulish, as well.  You’re making a serious error in judgement.”

Sherlock rubs his face.  His shoulders sag.  “Stop.  Brother.  I am _tired_.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  But.  Choices, choices.”

“Mycroft.”

“So.  A toast to Mum, Sherlock?  Though she’d be so disappointed.”

“Now who is being ambiguous for no useful reason?  Fine.  Why?”

Mycroft raises a full wine glass from the table between them and sighs heavily; it is no longer affected.  “That even for her sake, we cannot as much as share a room or a bottle of _Chablis_ in any semblance of accord.”

“ _Sharing_.  A new chapter for you but I’m sure you’ll catch on eventually,” Sherlock remarks, glancing away with a sniff.

“Is that your idea of _humour_?” Mycroft asks, sharply.

“Seeing as you’ve neglected to pour any wine in my glass,” Sherlock retorts. _Drinking alone in the evenings._

Mycroft glances over in alarm, clears his throat and reddens.  “True.”


	31. A valet

John is dozing off with a book in bed when Sherlock comes back to Baker Street; at the sound of the door downstairs, John sits up and a shiver streaks to his groin.  His step on the stairs seems slower than usual, and irregular, so John drops the book onto the bedside table and rises to meet Sherlock, finding him just outside the bedroom door.   

“Good evening,” Sherlock says, removing his jacket and slinging it over his arm.  A smile is tugging at his lips and he exhales a laugh through his nose.  “Soldier, mmm.”  He has been drinking wine.  A lot of it. 

John knows his lips and tongue will be deliciously tangy with it; he puts out the tip of his tongue and pulls in Sherlock’s lower lip for a little suck, in greeting.  And hums at the taste.  “My phoenix is home.   Come,” John hugs him close and licks at his mouth again.  Sherlock’s hair still smells of lavender from the shower he’d had before going out.  He shifts his weight from one foot to another and his knees seem a bit soft; he leans into John.   John smiles.  _Just a bit pissed._ “I think I need a lot more.” 

“’I might ask a lot of you.’  You told me that, once,” Sherlock slurs slightly.

“Hmmm, yeah.  I remember.  I didn’t know if -- you’d.”  John’s warm fingers reach out to take Sherlock by the wrist.  He brings the hand to his mouth and kisses his palm and runs his soft mouth over the length of several fingers.  “Let’s take off these cuffs and this shirt.  _Valet de chambre_ wants to overstep a few --”

“Mmmm, John, what else?” Sherlock asks, eyes slowed, as John’s ( _strong, mannish_ ) fingers open his shirt buttons.

“Wh -- what do you...have in mind, beautiful phoenix?”

Sherlock binds his arms around John’s lower back and rests his head against John’s shoulder and neck, offering his hair to John, who rubs his nose in it affectionately.  “What else would you ask me for, John?” he asks.  He nods suddenly.  “In fact, I shouldn’t drink.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” John smiles.

“I can’t -- focus.  Did you say, _valet de chambre_?”

“Yeah.   Other arm, please.”  Sherlock holds up his arm; his shirt is hanging open enticingly.  John opens the last buttons on his second cuff and pulls the shirt off him.  John guides him toward the bed, where he reaches for Sherlock’s trouser zip.  “Hmmmm, not wearing pants, the valet forgot to lay them out?  Of course he didn’t forget.  He’s been thinking about how close you are, right there, so he can get to you.”  The trousers come off.  “Like this,” he says, looking up at Sherlock as he picks up his left hand and smiles, lowering his lips to kiss the skin of Sherlock’s inner wrist.  In a moment he has pushed Sherlock onto his back and has Sherlock’s left knee wedged between his own.

“I love you,” Sherlock answers quietly, as he shifts his back and gropes for a pillow.  He stares up at John’s mouth, the heat of which seems to have seeped into his veins, already.  Again, he understands that he is rather tipsy.  He must be if John still has pyjama trousers on, he attempts to reason.  Sherlock sucks in a breath to ask a question but John takes it for enthusiasm (not far off, anyhow) and in a second has clamped his mouth over Sherlock’s lips, sliding his tongue against them softly, wanting them open.  His fingers have clasped Sherlock’s jaw.  After a few more licks he pulls back slightly and looks down at him.  And smiles.

“I love you, too.  You ‘kay?”

“Yes, very okay,” Sherlock groans, and tugs John down onto his chest.

“You’re.  So bloody hot, I can’t stop.”

“I can’t -- start.”

“That’s all right, beautiful, I just want to kiss you and look at you, now.”

“Okay, you should -- you should do exactly.  That.  Mmmm, John.”

John has pulled down his pyjama and lets Sherlock pull off his shirt.

“Want me to tell you a story?  About the valet?”

“Yes.”

“So who’s the valet?”

“I am?” Sherlock offers.

“God, yes.”  John smiles and licks his lips.  “Good.  The retired army officer’s new valet.”

 _Nnnngh!_   “Okay.”

“The officer is lonely and frustrated after living a few action-packed, dangerous years abroad and coming back to all the English sort of routines.  Which are nothing like the drill of army life, at all.  That’s so different.  Self-contained, and organised without all the nuisances he hates like gas board notices or catching cabs, or crowds of people who don’t have a bloody idea what’s happening in the world, what people go through out there.  So he’s lonely.  And he needs someone to help him sort out the bills, help around the place, take care of all the things that he can’t really face and deal with, like, that he doesn’t have anyone to talk to anymore, or eat dinner with.  So.  He interviews several people.  None of them are right.  Some even seem to feel sorry for him or like they’d want to nurse him, and he feels like a complete idiot, because he doesn’t need that.  Then it turns out he’s met six people, some of whom just want the money and a room to live in.  And still none of them are really right for him, so he thinks he might give up.  He meets his future valet in a funny way, though.”

“Really?  How?” Sherlock is smiling promisingly at John and running his nails over John’s arse.  

“When the sixth person leaves, an absolutely stunning creature rushes to the door just after, from nowhere, and asks if he could see the officer’s boots.  The officer goes to show him and sees that they’re missing from by the door, and the man standing there in front of him laughs and says ‘Fetishist!’ and rushes off again.  It’s pissing off, it is, because his shoes have got stolen for one, and he’s got no idea who he’s just met, but he’s already gone and the officer’s not happy to see his back, at all.  So.  He comes round the next day, with the boots.  Polished, re-laced.  And to make a long story short -- the officer asks him to stay.  But he doesn’t, right away.  Once he’s freed himself of his obligations in London he moves out to help the officer.  He is no ordinary valet, and pays careful attention to everything the officer needs, anticipating a lot of things for him, and the officer cares for his valet -- too much.  Much too much.”

“Why too much?”

“He’s not a real valet.  He’s just working undercover.  And while the officer thinks he’s found a real companion, and is even falling in love, the valet knows it’s not for real.”

“It is most definitely for real, the officer’s life is at stake, obviously, the fetishist preys on officers, stealing their things and then returning to kill them.  The valet loves him.  Change it,” Sherlock protests, before grinning at John's raised eyebrows.

“Hey, now, this is _my_ story.  All right, I’ll -- so.”  _Sentiment, love?_   “One night it’s stormy and cold and the officer’s head is bothering him and he goes to bed early.  The valet comes to help him dress and this night, the officer is tired of trying to hide things anymore.  So instead of asking the valet to leave his nightclothes on a chair, he openly asks him to undress him and put him to bed.  The valet agrees.  And takes off his clothes for him.  The officer waits for the inevitable questions about his scars from the war but the valet doesn’t have to ask, he knows everything.  He doesn’t make it a sort of spectacle, just moves to dress the officer in his night clothes.  There’s this sort of silence when the officer is waiting, naked, getting a little hard just from looking at his friend, when the valet thinks twice about dressing him at all.  And he takes off all of his own clothes.”  (Sherlock snorts his approval.)  “The officer can hardly stand it.  Everything he’s thinking and wanting, it’s all right there, plain to see, so.  It’s obvious they feel the same.  The valet says, ‘now, we either dress each other for bed, or we do what we’ve both been wanting to all this time.’  And they suck each other and kiss over and over for most of the night while the storm pounds on the windows, and in the early morning, they fall asleep together.  They wake up and keep at it.  They just have to have everything.  The officer is so happy he is about to explode into pieces.  The valet is a perfect friend for him in every imaginable way and an incredible, passionate lover, and he decides he will never let go of him and will kill anyone who tries to come between them.  So it’s even worse when one day after all of that, when things are so perfect, the valet tells him that he has been undercover and he has finally solved the case he’d come to work on.  A killer in the area is taken into custody but the officer is wrecked because he thinks he got played for a fool.  But it isn’t true, his friend really does love him.  Good thing, because the officer can’t even sleep without his valet anymore.  He can’t do anything.  He can't even eat.  And the next time he sees the man he tells him that no matter what he will always love him and wants him to stay, whether he’s his valet or just to be there.  And they stay together.  They have to.  The valet wants him just the same, and they fuck all over the house for _days_.  For years.  The valet loves when the officer bends him over a chair and fucks him really fast, and shallow.  The officer wants to be sucked off in the garden so he can look up at the open sky and remember how big the world is, and how much there is to share with his gorgeous, brilliant, sexy valet.  I love you so much, you know that?  Look at you, beautiful, give me a kiss.  Another one.  Oh, God, yes.  Oh, yeah.  Touch me -- hmm, love, so good -- good -- ahh, yeah --”

***

Mycroft has been reminded by his brother of several unfortunate events that give him no rest, now, and he has made a decision.  He invites Alex for tea, despite a mild hangover, and talks to him about Bosnia.  When he is certain his guest is more relaxed, he begins:

“Alexander.  You will be needed.  In a week’s time at a private birthday event and again, more importantly, at a March Equinox cocktail party and private performance of _The Rite of Spring_ by dancers from the St. Petersburg ballet.”

“Cocktail party...ah,” Alex tenses back up visibly.

“In each case, you will create portraits of the honoured guests.  Yet you aren’t pleased in the least.  Why not.”

“I don’t care for parties, Mycroft.  Nor crowds,” the artist admits, folding his hands in his lap.

“I am well aware.  But unless you choose to regard several members of the royal family and their personal friends a _crowd_ , I should think you’d find it a _pleasant_ grouping.”

“Fine,” Alex replies, even more stiffly.  “How many of them would there be?”

“At the birthday, six.  At the other, I don’t have a final number.  Eight, presently.  I am waiting for confirmation from two more people, the most illustrious of them, as it happens.  Your sketches would be bound, and auctioned for charity at one of Sotheby’s closed events exactly a month later, on the date of the Queen’s birthday in April.”

“I see.”

“You are still not pleased.”

“I am pleased to be _asked_ , naturally, and more than willing to contribute my work to charity if you know a good one.”

Mycroft darkens.  “You may refuse, of course.  Though you will be handsomely compensated for your work if you agree, there are funds set aside for such things.”

“Mycroft.  No.  You needn’t compensate me, at all, I’m sufficiently provided --”

“Say it, then,” Mycroft snaps.  “What is it.  What!”

“Ridiculously enough, it’s me.  Mycroft, I don’t do well at parties, and excepting Christmas at Baker Street, I haven’t been to a single one since I was in Linz, and even then -- well.  I left early.”

“No.  You collapsed and were rushed to the _Allgemeines Krankenhaus_ where you underwent stress tests for two days and it was determined that you should replace the valve _immediately_.”

Alex’s cheeks are burning as he replies, “If I agree, you won’t leave me hanging.”

“ _Hanging_ ,” Mycroft repeats, folding his arms and tipping his head in a manner that suggests _quizzical_ but is bordering on sarcastic (Alex recognises it from Sherlock).

“On my own.  You’d introduce me, at the very least,” Alex says.

“Naturally.  And how shall I introduce you?”

“Your choice.”

“Colleague.”

“That’s more than fine.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes at Alex as though he were looking for a second bottom to Alex’s wishes; when he cannot dowse one, he turns away.  “Benchmarkable deliverables,” he says absently, “in talks with South Asian stakeholders, Alexander, are infuriatingly granular of late.  Malaysia, South China Sea security.   There is a reason the sea itself is called the Dangerous Ground, not for its reef nor atolls nowadays but the natural gas reserves beneath them and the dispute over a shipping channel that means commodity prices on Singapore’s indexes could wilt by noon!  Lord, it’s _nauseating_.  Alexander, there are three acolytes presently reporting to the prime minister who are far less green than they seem.  They leave out key points, smooth matters in the interest of a particular MP, such that I suspected initially that they are in the pay of the opposition, but the truth is far more sinister.  Yes.  The vote to decrease military presence in Southeast Asia could be under certain foreign pressures.”

As a form of self-defence Alex begins to imagine he is in a film.  “Really?”

Mycroft waves indifferently with several fingers and continues.  “It’s impossible to make a move until tomorrow morning.  For now, there is Indun Bagnus to consider -- a shadowy eminence in Burmese politics -- who as it happens siphons money from the illegal transport of weapons and refugees to pay for a private mercenary army, training four hundred commandoes every six months, some most likely to undertake pirate activity in said waters.  The rest?  Branching out from trafficking to -- dear me.  Stay a moment, I must make a phone call.  A thought on London’s water supply and purification research.  Certainly connected to water.  Why else would the Chinese devote such energy to securing international water purification patents, now?  Ah.  Ah...”

Mycroft recites a string of numbers into the telephone and switches it off without explanation.

“At present I’ve no desire to see you come to harm,” Mycroft says, turning narrowed, glittery eyes toward Alex.

Alex blinks at the sudden focus on his person.  “Well.  Lovely that we feel the same,” he retorts and wonders if he’s just begun drafting his own execution order -- Mycroft looks needled.

He stares Alex down for several seconds of bizarre silence in which Alex feels he is being cooked from inside.  How the man does that, he cannot divine at all.  

Alex has, incidentally, misinterpreted  _everything;_ Mycroft is in the middle of a rather irrational and dangerous thought that ends thus:   _how fortunate Sherlock is not present to see this_.   “I assure you that none of the truth conditions in your statement are without serious complications,” he says, finally.

“I am well aware of that.” 

“Your presence is catalytic.”

“How is -- it is?” the artist stammers.

“But I cannot invite you here any longer without giving you the benefit of a certain prologue.   A diplomatic maneuver, artificial, but important.  I have relatively few true enemies, in England and abroad, but those I do have would like very much to influence anyone I contact, with _any_ regularity whatsoever.  I have quite a lifelong headache monitoring my own brother for this reason.  Among others which are irrelevant to us, here.”

“I see.  So I’ll let you get back to your work.”  Alex goes to stand.  “Thank you again for tea, it’s always a pleasure.”

“Be seated, I’m _not finished_.  In my experience, those who spend time with me might find themselves pressured.  That said --“

“I _understand_ perfectly, I will be off.”

“It’s clear why your architect friend Lindberg would be perturbed by you,” Mycroft retorts, ratcheting his tone downward.  “Your deference and benevolence are appallingly misleading, Alexander.  You withdraw everything at any gesture that obliges you to respond in kind.  Some call that coquettish.  I shall call it _convenient_.”

“What do you mean?” Alex finds he is unable to deny what Mycroft has just accused him of.  Indeed, years of illness have made him subconsciously wary of looking ahead or leaving any personal affairs unfinished, but nobody (aside from Sherlock, much less cuttingly) has assessed him quite this way.  It makes him feel like a total fool.  “I’m sorry, I -- have misunderstood you, perhaps.”

“What have you understood so far?”

Alex cocks an eyebrow and folds his arms.  “Oh, is that it, then.  Turning the tables.  Well.  I fail to see how a man on borrowed time who doesn’t care for frivolous contacts, is somehow convenient to the purposes of a strategist who has the world indexed at his fingertips and regards things and people in groupings but can hardly bear the dreariness of examining an individual.  Himself included, I might add!  And yet he must, I suppose, if he wishes to carry on underscoring, at every possible turn, the enormity of the distance between himself and others!”

“My, my.”

“Sorry, so sorry.  That was uncalled for.”

“No, I concede.”

“Don’t.  Don’t concede, not at all.  I’m unreasonable.  I’ll be on my way.  I’ll give some consideration to attending your parties to portrait the guests, if you’ll still have me there, thank you.”  Alex stands and buttons his jacket with several mannered movements, nostrils flared in exasperation.  "I'll be in touch."

“Alexander,” Mycroft says, pulling a small, flat mobile device from his own jacket pocket and holding it out to Alex.  “Above all, avoid cabs and public transport.  You are vulnerable to electromagnetic attack, it’s far more common than you’d believe.”

Alex eyes what to him looks like a very compact silver MP3 player.  “What is this, then?”

“A precaution,” Mycroft states. 

“What -- does it do?”

“It is a secure connection to my driver, Rodney.  He will be at your disposal, for transit, shopping and other errands and appointments, as needed.  It uses the standard charger type like your phone.  Keep it.”

“But there’s no need, Mycroft, I don’t go out much.”

“Not so.  You have another objection, entirely.  Out with it.”

“I’m -- surprised that you want to give _me_ this.”

Trying to make a friend is far harder and far more frustrating than Mycroft had remembered.  He sighs loudly in spite of himself -- _ech, the exertion_. “It’s merely for your convenience, why should it _surprise_ you?”

“I’m quite -- flattered, to be honest.  That’s very thoughtful of you, really, I appreciate it.”

The gratitude of another person is unexpectedly stirring.  _No.  Not stirring in the least._ “Enough.  Take it.”

“Thank you very much.  I didn’t intend for you to -- arrange any of this.”

“ _Go_.”

“Good afternoon.  Thank you again.”


	32. There are impulses

Sherlock has suddenly taken up his violin and played (variations of what John believes to be Mozart) for nearly two hours continually.  When John comes down from his room, hungry, Sherlock pauses and turns to look at him.  He starts to speak, hesitates, and blurts, “John.”

“Hey.”

“You mentioned that you hadn’t seen any of my older photographs,” Sherlock remarks more evenly.

“Yeah.  I’d like to sometime.”

“The envelope on the table,” Sherlock says, indicating a brown packet with the tip of his bow.  He resumes his song.

John comes over and grabs the envelope enthusiastically, grinning.  “Any where _you’re_ starkers?  No?  Oh, come _on_.  Not even shirtless?  Wow.   _Damn_.  Oh -- oh."

John’s mouth is working over something more difficult, now.  “This one, on the coast,” he says.

“Mmm.”

John stares at what appears to be Sherlock in his thirties.  With darker skin, and three indistinct tattoos on his biceps.  “This one of.”  _Hinault, you call him.  Jesus Christ._ John notes that he has covered his mouth with his hand and quickly rubs his chin to compensate.

“Your opinion.” Sherlock has closed his eyes, but has not interrupted his song, which he is playing more quietly.

John has also found five pictures which, judging by the clothing and surroundings, date from the 1980s and early 1990s.  He smiles.  “Mycroft was bloody _fat_.  You’ve always been -- well, the hair.  Dates things.  But look at you.  God, you’re practically the _same_.  _Where were you_ in the late nineties.  Where.  Jesus.”

“The others.”

“There are four --“

“Yes.  _Those_.”

Hinault, seated on a train station bench, smiling.  _Oh my God._   At the seaside, holding a cigarette in his teeth, looking like John’s sexy phoenix -- but more weather-worn, in dark jeans and a wrinkled cotton shirt that is unbuttoned to the navel, chest mostly exposed (another tattoo, on the ribcage), a metal watch on his arm.  Deep crinkles around his eyes, larger ears.

“He.  Is.  This is.  Extraordinary.” 

“Oh?”

“You’re taller, but.  Well, okay -- you already know.”

Sherlock puts down the violin. 

“No.”

“No, what?”

“It’s irrelevant to --”

John feels his nose start to prickle.  “Nope.  As relevant as it gets, Sherlock.”

“Unambiguous, then?”

“Yeah.  Why?” 

“I wanted you to assess the resemblance objectively.  First.”

“Uhm. Uh, I just did.”  John holds the photos out.  “Look at them, love, it’s --”

John takes Sherlock’s right hand and kisses his knuckles.  He can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound hackneyed, inconsiderate or redundant, so he silently holds that hand and turns the gold ring around his friend’s finger, looking down at its soft, uneven surfaces, proud that it is worn constantly, becoming pleasantly absorbed in that fact, his mind drifting forward to evening and how to seduce the man with a single hand, or a single finger -- _so responsive, I could_ \-- until he hears Sherlock make a sound that suggests he has had enough.  John goes to pull his hand away and finds it grasped tightly for another moment. 

“Give them over, already, for God's sake,” he hears.

John snaps back to the moment, leans over and plucks the pictures from the table; Sherlock opens the flap of the envelope, letting them fall into his palm with a quick, graceful movement.  He rifles through them mechanically and removes the four in question, of Hinault, dropping the rest on his knees; John watches, biting his lips nervously in what Sherlock might call _an endearingly ineffective attempt at masking concern,_ were he in the mood to describe anything else in the room:  he catches his breath and seems to hold it as he studies the four pictures in his beautiful hands; his eyes are darting over every increment of surface.  “Mmm,” he grunts at one point.

Again, John stops himself from comment.  For as long as he can.  “Love you,” he exclaims, and the tension behind it makes him sound angry, but Sherlock is not put off.  He wraps an arm around John’s shoulder and kisses the grayest bit of his temple several times, closing his eyes and lingering over the soft strands with his lips until he feels John move to turn his head closer and tip up his chin.

They share a kiss but their minds are whirring in completely different directions.  Sherlock takes John’s hand and rubs it, looking down at the oak leaves on the band of his signet meditatively. (The elderly Hungarian engraver, he has recently heard through Alex, is unwell; it will be a pity indeed if John’s ring is his last commission, though in all likelihood it will be.)  “We currently live together --“

“Yeah?”

“And the rest is of less importance to me.  I’ve told you.”

“The rest of what?”

“The restrictions on my movements and activities.”

“It can’t interfere with normal life, love.”

“A bullet can interfere with normal life.”

“What are you trying to say.  What is going on.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “John.”

“Yeah.”

“Mycroft put forward a offer.”

“I’m sick as _fuck_ of his bloody offers.”

Sherlock looks steadily at the opposite wall. 

John sighs noisily.  “Do _you_ have any input?  Seriously --”

Sherlock turns on John and glares, his pride clearly wounded.

“Take it easy.  Hey.”

Sherlock has curled up on the sofa with his back to John.  “I need to _think_.”

John puts a hand in Sherlock’s hair.  “’Kay.”  A kiss to the ear, accepted.  “I’m going to want some supper.  Bangers, maybe, I can slice some and stir-fry that sort of with the mushroom rice thing you made yesterday, make a slaw to go with it?  Want any?”

“Risotto.  Shredded turkey breast makes more sense, there’s a bag of it in the freezer, steam it.  Rocket and tomatoes.”

“You’re determined, aren’t you.  Always have to.” John stands up from the sofa and stretches out his back. 

“What,” Sherlock growls.

“I suspect,” John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock’s tone and tries to lighten things, “you’re trying to keep me _well_ for some reason.  Nefarious plans?”

“Yes.”

“Care to share?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?"

"Mm."

***

_Hey John, meet for a pint at 7?  Greg_

_Sure thing.  Under the Boar and Nettles_

_OK  Greg_

***

Alex has given Sherlock a small stack of discarded ink drawings to use as outlines for dry brush watercolouring.  Sherlock appreciates more than ever how well his mother had painted her floral plates; he vows to find a way to pry more of her work out of Mycroft's clutches.  

 _Mycroft_.  After their lengthy chat over wine some days before, Sherlock has elected to leave his brother’s name and ghost out of his ( _relationship?_ ) with Alex, lest it complicate things even further.  However, after noting a certain silver-coloured device on a tabletop near Alex’s front door ( _showing me? yes_ ), he watches Alex with a kestrel’s keenness, scanning him for any signs that he _is_ the field-mouse in an as-yet-undetermined game, but finds nothing of use.  Alex doesn’t mention the elder Holmes' gesture in any way, thus Sherlock doesn’t either; as well, he has no intention of informing Alex of something he had only very, very recently connected, or found it _interesting_ to connect:  something Mycroft had told him shortly after his return from Norfolk, when John was newly _his_ and he couldn’t be asked to concentrate:  _“Add to your hoard of trivia that the smell of lime effectively blocks the scent of sub-lingually administered arrhythmia medication.  Or weren’t you close?”_ There are, in fact, three cameras on the street opposite Alex’s building -- two belonging to a bank.  A third one points -- or can be pointed -- at Alex’s kitchen window, which generally has open curtains; his bathroom window is usually (though not always) heavily curtained; the artist occasionally keeps his toiletries on the sill, including the lime he’d presumably got from his priest of an ex.  Therefore, if brother dear had been watching Sherlock’s cruel pursuit of Alex ( _for a case, for a case, though in far worse times_ ) he could, conceivably, have watched Alex leave to the toilet to take a pill to calm his heart, which he very well might have.  Mycroft, it appears, had been privy to the entire scene between them in the kitchen.  _Hell._ And had taken in far more from Alex’s behaviour than Sherlock had.

Now, Alex is less talkative than usual and distracted.  Even so, Sherlock notes, his movements are noticeably quicker every week; he is breathing easier since he feels less site pain and has more energy; even so, he bears signs of discomfort from the palmful of pills he takes every day.  The date he’d set to return to work (mid-February), at least at his home desk, has come and gone. Sherlock sees he needn't have mentioned it; the fact now dominates Alex's downward-spiraling thoughts as they paint in silence for nearly twenty minutes -- quite possibly a new record, between them.

“A secret for a secret,” Sherlock says, suddenly.  “Mine is choice, so don’t disappoint.”

“Oh?” Alex says, startled from his thoughts.  “Let me refer to my long list of secrets, then.  They’re unsorted, you see.”  The artist tightens his grip on his dampened brush and runs it over a square of deep cobalt pigment.  “Well, then.  What could I possibly have to say that you’d find ‘choice’.  This one is -- well.  That I’ve -- nearly married, once.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen perceptibly.  One eyebrow shoots upward of its own accord.

Alex sighs and looks away.  “I was engaged to a woman.  A truly beautiful girl.”

“Oh?”  _How did I not deduce -- mmm._

“For months.  She was a lovely person, in fact.  We’d planned most of the wedding, as well.  Yeah.  What a mess I made of things, you can’t imagine.  Her parents!  Seriously.  Oh, Lord.”

As usual, Alex’s softening eyes betray him; it had been far worse, Sherlock sees.  “How did _you_ end it?”

“By telling her the truth, which was enough to ensure an instant, clean break.  She’s stayed on in academia, got professorship now, still in London, still unmarried, in fact Kadi Perkins took an elective course from her on colour theory, I heard, at the Uni.”

“But that isn’t all.  How would you have done it?” Sherlock asks, swallowing and looking at his friend more carefully.  _Mycroft was right, blast him._

“Well.  The elevator was broken in my building of choice.  I collapsed on the landing at the sixth floor.  I was in too much of a hurry.  Isn’t that ridiculous?  I can laugh at it now, it’s nearly Kafkaesque, absurd.  To fail out of one’s own enthusiasm for the act.  I do appreciate the irony of that.”  Alex looks pleadingly at Sherlock, as if to beg off answering any more questions.

“You have claimed that you’re not suicidal,” Sherlock reminds him with a shade of annoyance he cannot be bothered to suppress.

“I’m not.  That’s the thing.  But there are impulses that come and take hold of a man.”

“Mmm.  True.”

Alex’s eyes flicker with empathy.  Sherlock doesn’t want it but looks away from it a second too late. 

“Well, enough wallowing,” Alex says.  “Now yours.  Your ‘choice secret’, as you put it.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Well.”  Sherlock picks up another ink drawing to colourise and bites his lip at it.  “Mmm.”

“Come now, what is it, then?”

Sherlock licks at his lips with a click and furrows his brows, noticing in a moment that he is behaving almost like John.  “Mmm.  There’s a matter I’m becoming increasingly inclined to give consideration to.”  Sherlock gulps at how clumsily that had emerged from his mouth.

“Aha.”

_How do people do this.  How do they talk about -- things.  Rephrase?  Pointless:  unwarranted emphasis._

As the oddness of the silence spreads between them, Alex raises his eyes from his paper.  “So...what would that be, then?”

Sherlock’s throat has reddened in patches; he can feel them burning against his collar.  “There are impulses that come.  And take hold of a man,” Sherlock explains.  “As you said.”

“What impulses do you mean?” Alex’s entire countenance drops and pales.  “Are you all right?”

“No.”  Sherlock sets down his brush, folds his arms, and settles back in his seat.

“What sort of -- impulses.” 

“For instance, to marry,” Sherlock croaks and clamps his teeth shut. 

Alex’s mouth has dropped open.  “Oh,” he gasps, clasping his hands in a gesture that could only be his Aunt Claudia’s.   “But,” he says, “the impetus to marry should be a _joyful_ one.”  

“Unless it isn’t.”

“Perhaps you’d like to explain why --”

“No.”

“It’s fine.  Really.”

“No.”  As an attempt at reaching out, it feels abortive and _stupid_ , Sherlock thinks, though verbalising one’s concerns seems, at least in others’ eyes, to elicit or build rapport, however irrelevant and annoying it may in fact be.  _It is a measure of loyalty, if nothing else_ , he thinks defensively.  And the man is not laughing at all, nor is he claiming it is a ridiculous idea, in spite of being handed perhaps the most opportune moment to do precisely that. 

“For the record,” Alex says, jolting Sherlock back to the moment.  “I think it’s _wonderful_ news.”

“I said I am considering it.  When we’re in Salzburg next month.  Suitable?”

“Of course it is, there’s hardly a lovelier place in Europe!”

“Mmm.  I’ve long lost my objectivity --” 

“As though it required any sort of _extensive deliberation_.  If he’ll have you, marry that man, you fool of a _being!_ ” Alex answers, smiling broadly.

“Why do you suppose he wouldn’t have me?” Sherlock darkens.  “Explain.”

“Well.  If he knew the full extent of your _silliness_.  Look at your right ring finger for one.  Go on, look down."

“As it happens, you are in a better position to understand than I’d expected,” Sherlock replies.  Alex shivers at the echo of Mycroft’s voice ( _you are in a unique position --_ ).  “In fact, John was married.  To a woman.”

“Your John?”

“Mm.”

_You’re right, Sherlock, marriage is a bloody farce.  And when it comes to ways of showing loyalty, just a bunch of false promises and a fucking waste of emotions, money, people’s gifts, time, clothes, everything.  All of it.  Fucking pointless.  Look at it.  Fuck it.  Sodding waste -- and -- never again.  Biggest mistake of my life, and never -- again.  Have the good sense to stop me if I ever talk about doing it, will you?  Because it would mean I’ve gone round the fucking bend --_

***

“So.  Took Linda out.  For Valentine’s.”  Greg clears his throat.  As he reaches for his beer, he looks around guiltily.  “She’s a firecracker.”

“Yeah.”  John grits his teeth and tries not to think too much more.  “How are things now.”

“She’s moving in.”

“Wh --“

“No, no.  Yeah, but.  At the beginning of March, sort of.  She’s  going to take the two back rooms by my Mum’s.”

John harrumphs into his beer.  “Yeah, but what about Mike?”

“Mike, too.  Changing schools, not the best thing but we’ll help him out.”

“I -- okay.”

“She’s great with my Mum.  That’s -- the main reason she’s -- look, my Mum hasn’t even smiled since, like, Remembrance Day, she heard a song and smiled one time.  But then -- look, she actually responds to Linda.  It’s damned amazing, they get on, it’s like she revived her.  I have to give her -- she’s the best thing any of us have had in -- damn.  Don’t know what to do.  We need her.”

“Sure.  Sure.”  John nods.  _I’m an idiot, I haven’t even talked to her about Will’s problems.  The clinic.  Fuck!_

Lestrade continues.  “Didn’t want to rush things.  I tried, but it’s really working.  It’s really something.  She’s damned special.  You’re right.  Right about that.  I, yeah.”

“Be careful with her.  She’s been through a lot.”

“I know, we -- sort of covered that.”

“Greg, I’m telling you, take care.”

“Plan to.”

“Yeah, I know.  Yeah.”  John is pushing back an unexpected pang of jealousy over the child.  “And Mike?  How’s Mike with all this?” he asks.

“He’s got questions.  But he helps out, too.  He’s a worker, good kid.”

“That’s good.  Good.”  John sighs.  He has deeply mixed feelings at the moment but pushes some hard thoughts about Jim aside and nods again.

“Sorry to hear about your friend, sounds serious.  Linda’s taking it hard.  They’re practically the same age, you know?”

“Hmm?”

“Sandra, that doctor’s wife she was sort of -- I don’t know.”

“Oh, yeah.  Yeah.”  _I dropped the ball.  Damn it.  Damn it...._ “It’s damned dangerous.”  Vilnius has thrown John for a greater loop than he'd realised, or so he tells himself, now.

“So.  Yeah.  But.  How’re things over at Baker Street these days?  Read your post.” Greg plays with his glass.

“Huh, yeah.  Uhm.  We were on a couple of cases,” John swallows a long gulp of beer.  “He’s got it in him.  It’s -- still pissing me off that he’s not using it.  To help out.  But he’s -- he’s good, yeah.”

“Yeah.  Glad to hear it.  Maybe I’ll come by, if.”

“You should, why not.”

“He never texts, so, didn’t want to sort of --“ Greg shrugs.  He looks uncomfortable again.

“Pop by.  Why not.”

“Yeah.  Cheers,” Greg says, and raises his glass.

“Cheers.”


	33. Setting things off

Alex and Sherlock have just left the hospital after Alex’s latest visit, which marks the passing of the almost-seven-week point after his surgery.  The two men have elected to grab something warm to drink at a cafe across the way before heading their separate ways for the afternoon. 

“Your brother scares me,” Alex informs Sherlock off-handedly, as if he had a speck of food in his teeth or a spot on his shirt.

“Rightfully so,” Sherlock says, pulling a smile that doesn’t match an annoyed flash in his eyes.  “The x-rays of your sternum.  Mending?”

“Seriously.  You keep saying things like that.  Who am I taking tea with?” Alex asks.

“Me.  Hello.  On a number of other occasions, lately, the British Government.  Your _sternum_?”

“Fine, just fine.”  Alex takes a medical report from an envelope and hands it over.  “An analyst, then?”

“ _The_ analyst, when he isn’t busy planning a coup, shipping out suitcase dictators, inciting trade skirmishes or redrawing other’s constitutions.  Mm.  The wires?  No sign of infection?”

“No.  He doesn’t, like, have people -- assassinated?”

“Not every _week_ , that would get stale,” Sherlock sighs.  “Why.  Has he offered you another biscuit?”

Alex disappoints by not even smiling.  He shrugs and stares out the window with a passivity that suggests he is feeling worse than he lets on; he is disturbed by his own response to his medications; his doctor had given him less than pleasant answers to his questions. However, he is not about to return to the subject now.  “I’m doing a spot of portraiture for him, at a party tomorrow night.  Another next month.  I think this is a sort of trial.  I’ve no idea what to wear, nor who the subjects might be.  Ambassadors, politicians, perhaps.”

“Who cares.  When you’re drawing they’ll most certainly still be alive,” Sherlock says flippantly.  “You’re appearing as yourself, smile munificently and avoid looking like the help.  Dress as you please.”  Sherlock flicks a brow upward and rolls his eyes lightly.  “Fine, what happened.  Concerning Jens, obviously, though you didn’t see him.”

“Apparently I left some of my supplies after a meeting and he texted this morning that I might drop by and pick them up.  And have coffee.”

“He isn’t entirely finished with the Catalonian, then, or he’d bring them to you.”

Alex groans so quietly it ends in a whine.  Suddenly he asks, “Sherlock, what is a catalyst, exactly?  I was hopeless in chemistry, don’t look at me like that, I was the proverbial bloke who blew up the sink in my year except that I really _did_ blow it up.”

“Excellent.  Your method?” Sherlock asks, steepling his fingers.

“Potassium metal.  I panicked when I found out what it was and dropped it right into a sink of water.”

“I might still have a bit of that lying about -- what.  Alex.  A catalyst speeds a reaction by allowing a _reactant_ species to acquire enough energy -- you see.  It remains _unaltered_ and can be recovered in an unchanged state, _verstehst du_.” 

“We won’t talk about this any more, I swear.  But.  Your brother said I’m _catalytic_.  What does that mean?” Alex asks. 

For a moment Sherlock looks genuinely bothered.  “It meeeeeans,” he replies, exhaling dramatically and then pursing his lips until they pop, “that you’ll send the driver for the drawing supplies.”  A frown gathers between his brows.  “And no coffee.  It would be bad for your heart.”

***

Man-In online talks to Dr. John Watson.  Interviewer: Jay Simmers

_JS:  Maybe you’re aware that you’re known for your confrontational interviews..._

JW:  Yeah?  That’s another example of how interviews get out of control, then.  Because _someone is_ leading the interview.  There’s a burden of responsibility there, isn’t there.  I have yet to have one where I don’t end up sort of disgusted with the kinds of questions they think everyone wants to hear my answers to.  Know what I mean?  Sort of hoping you’ll do better.

_JS:  I can’t promise to be better.  But I will try to write things out the way you meant them._

JW:  That’s what I want.  Writing truthfully about what I say?  That would do it for me.

_JS:  Can do.  Doctor Watson.  Sexual identity is often separated from sexual practice and orientation.  Do you accept that sort of division?_

JW:  Yeah.  That’s sort of why I agreed to talk to you in the first place.  It makes sense to break it down that way because things are easily put in boxes and that’s not the whole picture.

_JS:  So we’ll do our best to be clear?  Shall we?  I wonder if as part of an M/M relationship you’ve felt any pressure from society, being an ex-soldier and medical professional._

JW:  Can you be more specific?

_JS:  Particularly as an ex-army officer._

JW:  I haven’t felt any, or at least I didn’t take it that way.  I don’t count anonymous hate in comments on my blog, so.  No.  I’m not really able to say much about the sexuality of men and women who serve or have served as a whole, nobody can, but we both know damned well that any time you have a closed sort of environment, _like_ the military, or any other workplace, or other grouping with its own internal rules, anyone who stands out in the group for any reason is potentially open to bullying, ridicule or misunderstanding.  And it doesn’t have to be about sexuality, even, right?  Like in school, not much difference.  It’s not automatic, of course not.  But that’s the dark side of human nature.  We know how to organise advanced societies, but that also means we know how to single out and ostracise on the flip side.  And it happens all around us in different ways.  Attitudes toward single parents, people in poverty, religious groups, immigrants, even people with certain chronic illnesses, right?  Unfair.  Worse when it’s for something you cannot or do not even want to change.  We’ve not come as far as we should about some things at all, it’s a shame.  And not just in the military environment.  No.  That’s just sort of one of a lot of different micro-environments that reflect human nature under more or less extreme conditions, right? 

_JS:  Are there some other places where your relationship meets ‘human nature’ and it leads to criticism?_

JW:  Like I said, I’m not sort of in many situations where it would even matter.  It doesn’t have to be out there, as an omnipresent topic, I mean, while seeing patients or in day to day life?  Why would it come into play at all?  It’s bloody annoying when you look at all the press stories about people who have a hell of a lot more to say and represent than just who they are walking about outdoors with that week, which isn’t anyone’s business anyway.

_JS:  You mentioned patients.  You’re an NHS doctor, so how do your patients respond to press about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?_

JW:  Well, most people ignore it, I guess, or at least don’t mention it, I’ve only had a couple isolated incidents over it, nothing like a pattern.  I’d be surprised if there was one.  A few strong opinions here and there are normal in any job.  People can get confrontational about all sorts of things, can’t they.  They have buttons, they can fly off the handle about everything from queues to gray clouds to Tube strikes, or pizza toppings so if someone just sort of has that anger already, they just let fly.  Thing is, if it happens to be about someone you love, your closest relationship, and that you chose it, yeah, it hurts a bit more, of course it does.  But a lot of it is only painful in a general way because of how misplaced it is, that’s all.  It’s just unfortunate.  When there’s a rational or objective reason behind things you can at least talk.  Otherwise you can’t even address it intelligently and it just sits there.

_JS:  So in your working life it isn’t an issue that you’re in a relationship with another man?  That’s good news._

JW:  Not that I can tell so far, it’s not an issue, no. 

_JS:  Well, the fact is that there are not enough openly LGBT-friendly GPs in the medical world, particularly outside of the three largest cities._

JW:  Sorry?  What do you mean?

_JS:  By that I mean medical professionals, especially specialists, who make an effort to invite LGBT patients to come in.  From my own experience as a gay bloke it’s sort of intimidating to sign up for a visit not knowing what sort of response to expect to certain problems and questions.  Or what questions I might hear.  Any thoughts?_

JW:  Sure.  Some issues are intimidating to talk about, full stop, for practically everyone, and part of being a doctor is being objective about treating the body, right?  It shouldn’t be any different from the doctor’s point of view, at all, but I see what you’re getting at.  It’s a trust thing.  There aren’t enough, then?  That’s odd, actually, I hadn’t thought about that, much.  Judging patients shouldn’t even happen and selection or refusal is just bloody off unless there is a very, very good reason, like if it’s a case for referral, right?  Out of your area of expertise, for example.  But I guess there are as many approaches to patients as there are professionals and some might openly or less openly seem to show reluctance. 

_JS:  Sherlock Holmes avoids the public eye these days.  Any reason for that?_

JW:  It’s not avoiding, no, just a change in research focus.  His scientific work is as brilliant as his detective work, and he has a lot to give England and beyond, so, it’s less about avoiding and more about new priorities. 

_JS:  Some say the bad boy detective is finally settling down._

JW:  It might look like that to some people, sure.  Whatever. 

_JS:  Is the band he wears on his right hand from you?_

JW:  Yeah.

 _JS:_   _Any particular meaning behind it?_

JW:  Yeah.  It’s a symbol of our private life.  Usually the main point of bands.  End of story.

_JS:  Okay.  We’ve followed your adventures for years online and any sort of ‘end of story’ will be really sort of sad for all your fans, Doctor Watson._

JW:  Things change.  But that doesn’t have to be a sad thing, at all.  It isn’t to me, anyway. 

***

A definitive Twitter tag emerges and sticks within three minutes of publication:   _#ManInDrWatson._   The interview is ‘hailed’ as courageous, cowardly, mainstream, niche, closeted, open-minded, regressive, progressive, and everything in between; John has four calls from leading media for follow-up commentaries in the first half-hour, which he hangs up on; he finally shuts off his phone; he’s not got anything more to say.  He doesn’t even know if he’s satisfied with what he’s already said. 

In all of it, Sherlock says nothing (not surprising; he never has taken a position on _things_ ) though John has caught him reading the text itself with his hand loosely clapped over his lips, which he rubs thoughtfully.

“Any thoughts, love?” John finally ventures.  “Is it all right?”

“Mmhm.”

“Sure?”

“Yup.”

“I want everyone to leave you alone.  They won’t, though.”

“Who _cares_.  It will pass, John.  No more than four days.”

“Maybe you’re right.  Yeah.  Uhm.  Hmm.”

“What.”

“Come upstairs for a little while?”

“Not longer?”

John breaks into a warm smile.  “Bring the honey jar, whatever’s left.  Anything in there?”

“Mhm.” 

“Need to get you some more, pretty soon?”

“There’s enough for six more mugs of tea.”

“Enough for -- ?”

_“Plenty.”_

“Wait for you up there?”

***

Sherlock has appeared in John’s doorway in an open dressing gown.  He has the jar in his long fingers but John doesn’t notice it and soon Sherlock is pushing him down and lolling his tongue all over John’s chest, smudging a finger over him (once he’s coaxed him to pull off his pants), scooting lower to suck the first drops of want off John’s cockhead so that he comes back up tasting even more deliciously like honey (or tongue play with honey) and sex.  Sherlock has Salzburg on the brain.  And John can’t break off staring:  his man is so _bloody_ open and hot.  _Need to find a quiet place for you, you gorgeous thing.  Take care of you forever, there.  Fuck -- good.  You’re good._ “Needed this,” John tells Sherlock, watching him move his lips back down his chest.  “I love that -- when you -- oh God.  Talk to me a little.”

Sherlock picks up John’s hand and kisses each fingertip; once he returns to the first of them he says, in a deep tone that sounds almost like a warning,  “First a bit more play, and then you’ll be mine to the end.  Mmmm,” Sherlock whispers, and nips John’s middle finger.  “Because I want to come in you.”

“Oh -- my God,” John groans.  “Keep _talking_ \-- gorgeous -- make me feel it.  Oh, fuck, yeah.  Ah, yeah, ah.  Do it,” John pants as Sherlock slicks his fingers and slips one up into John to tease him, “Where’s -- more -- of that -- have it?”

“Mhm.  Relax, you like this, don't you, soldier --”

“Yeah, you’re so good, feels so good, more -- ahh -- yeah -- _there_ , fuck yeah -- “

Sherlock’s fingers, slim, long, focused on -- _that_ \-- giving pleasure, and quick -- _perfection -- oh fffuck --_ in a few touches, making John squirm and beg ( _fuck, what are you doing to me, losing my mind, pride, total control, fuck -- do it to me, just more, fuck --_ ) are slowly withdrawing, leaving an ache behind.  When John is so impatient, hardly sensible, Sherlock wants to hold off and watch him -- but he has no real need to see John on his knees, asking, though if John does it anyhow, he gladly plays along with it. 

John looks incredible.  Edgy all over, but smiling.  A shivering invitation -- of muscle, sweat, craving, all his own and all ready for _him_.  His head tumbling with adrenaline, listening to his man groan over every movement, before one, after one; he plumbs deeper into John’s arse stroke after stroke, all in the desire to touch him to the brink of his insides. (John is asking bluntly for more, moving lewdly against him to feel it deeper, growling that he can go ahead, do it, harder, so that he can _feel_.  _Get_.  Get closer.  He grasps his cock and tugs.)  “Sher -- fuck me, harder, hard.  Oh, God, you.  You feel so good, bloody -- hard tonight, fuck.  Good.  Ahhh, yeah -- you’re so good -- you’re -- perfect, fuck me with all of it -- _fuck_ \-- ahhh, yeah -- y -- _ahhh_ \-- ah-- ah -- ah -- baby, good, hmmmm, do it, harder -- ahh -- beautiful thing, fuck yeah -- let go, I can take it --“

Sherlock has his lips clamped in a kiss against John’s neck.  He is shaking with the need to tear in, bite, own.  He wants to come, all over John’s insides --  the thought -- absurd -- of course,  but being _there_ \-- so deeply _there_ \-- _there, just there_ \-- is so arousing in itself that he throbs with it in a new tenor, growls and thrusts with it raging in his head.  John is countering every move with his hips and arse -- _that’s perfect --_ his soldierly timing is ideally pulse-like.  Sherlock is closer and (so much) closer to spilling everything into him, now -- ( _or almost now -- distracted_ ) -- and pulls John tight to his thighs by the hips and moans a few fractured words and -- loses himself again in all that soft skin and warmth -- John, _his_ \-- also on the edge, with him, and _because_ of him.  In love, with him.  Wanting him.  _Bad, so bad -- hmmm --_  

John is incoherently obscene -- _encouraging.  Mad.  Madman_ \--  “Ahh -- love, love you, so much, _harder, ahhh --- ah!_   _Ffff  -- uck, oh God -- oh -- ah -- Sher -- lock_ \-- love -- you -- Sherlock -- _oh God -- God_ \-- Sher -- _hmmmmm_.  Love you -- so much -- ah, _yeah_.  So -- _hah_ \-- _yeah_.  Hah.  Hmmm, I _love you_.  I love you _so much_.  You’re amazing.  _Amazing_.  That felt -- oh -- _that_.   Was.  You.  _That_.  You are unbelievable.  I love you -- you’re so -- you’re everything.” 

“John, you are my -- _mine_ ,” Sherlock chokes, nearly faint with giddiness and gesturing half-heartedly at the bright glow in front of his eyes, which somehow seems to push his entire body against the mattress below them.  “No.  John, don’t -- regard -- disregard -- this thing.  I.  Sssaid.”

“You’re brilliant, you gorgeous thing.  Oh, Jesus, you’re so bloody hot, you fuck like a -- I don’t even know.  Holy shit.”

“Bad little wolf,” Sherlock says, kissing John’s cheek and chin lazily and laughing lightly against his skin.  “Doing that yourself, _I_ wanted to.”

“You maniac, you sort of _forgot_.”

“I -- oh.”

“Okay, love.  Oh, _God_.  You were.”

“Mmmm.  Care for a bath?”

“Sure.  Just bring it in here?” John starts giggling.

“I can.  Give me time.” Sherlock stands up from the bed.

“Not letting you go that long,” John tells him.

“I’ll wash you, here.”

“No -- no way, no.”

“You’ve let me before.”

“I couldn’t stand up long enough for a shower, that’s why.  Nope.”

“Mm.” For a moment Sherlock looks disappointed. 

“But you love me a little, don’t you,” John smiles, though he’s already feeling some of the anxiety he’d tried to talk out with Ella.   _You were amazing.  Caring.  Always._   Before it can get too far through him (“Stoooop it -- ehhh!”) Sherlock is back on top of him, rubbing his nose over his neck and licking him, until John shouts, gets him in a headlock and pushes him off. 

***

“Anything new?” Sherlock asks, huffing and cataloguing the papers strewn about Lestrade’s desk.   _Dull_.

“Nope, not much.” The DI has invited Sherlock to drop by the Yard and can’t seem to calm down his own fluttering gut.  It’s even worse now that he’s actually come in, looking as though he (still) rules the place.  Somehow it’s harder to start up a chat with the detective than he’d remembered -- or else things really have changed _that_ much.  He doesn’t analyse.

“Oh...I wouldn’t say that.”

“Uh, Sherlock --”

Sherlock pulls his back straight, tugs off his gloves and looks down his nose at Lestrade, who is sitting back in his office chair with his hands clasped on his thighs.  _Posture of feigned openness._   “You’ve been making feet for children’s socks or I wouldn’t even be here.”

“Wha --?” Greg pshaws and crosses his arms before understanding that it is a hopeless cause to deny a thing.  _Damn_.  “Feet for socks.  Who the hell says _that_.”

“You’re living under one roof with Linda Snow and you’ve recently started _shagging_ her with intent.  Better?”

“John told you, yeah, yeah.”

“Why would he have to.  Your collar is ironed and you’ve seen to your fingernails.  About time.  No, no, you invited John to a pub and the rest was obvious enough, that you’d just come to your senses after breaking a lengthy period of sexual abstinence, I’d say ten months, can’t say the same for the drinking -- it was the first evening she went out to Virginia Water, with her parents, tying up personal business, it was foggy so you didn’t drive her there.  You wanted to gauge John’s reaction _for the third time_ because you _still_ imagine that he cherishes thoughts of leaving me and taking up with her again.”

“Look -- that -- ehhhh.  Yeah.”

“The timing.  A formulaic juncture for a first date.  And, a full fifty days after seeing at Boxing Day that she was _still_ too shaken by the death of Sergeant Barrows to pay you mind.  Oh, and John suggested you renew contact with me after the _fifty two days_ of silence, saying I would _like_ it,” Sherlock grumbles. 

“Yeah, she and Mike are at my place,” Greg fills in.

“Oh.  Rest easy, the boy is _not_ John’s, the resemblance is misleading because he looks like Linda’s father -- and _so does John_ , which is more than likely why Linda never slept with him.  Have I _missed_ anything?”  Sherlock glares. 

Lestrade rubs his face and shakes his head.  “Loads.  Sorry to say.”

“The show must go on.”

“Most of the other parts were dead on, sorry.  Yeah.  Should have called, just.”

“What have you got.”

“Not a lot, today.  Want to see something that sort of -- well, just have a look.  There are a couple things.  Just don’t say anything that I showed you, 'kay?” 


	34. The operative precedent

February comes very quietly to a damp, foggy close.  

Little has happened to make the weeks distinct to John, aside from occasional hounding by isolated journalists (one tries to pass herself off as a patient) and the fact that he and his French teacher have needed to leave off on his lessons.  Kadi is still exhausted and nauseated in the mornings and John loses his motivation to learn even more when Sherlock crows happily one Saturday at breakfast that he has a serious buyer (and a second in reserve) for his property.  John can hardly answer him.  But he has decided he will help Kadi as he can from the medical side.  She needs it.  He feels it’s the least he can do; she is coping badly with the discovery of her lover’s deceitfulness (soon, the media noise over Didier Dufort’s arrest on charges of trading fraud and tax evasion comes as another dreadful shock to her.  Her 'ex' becomes a poster-boy for decadent, immoral Euro-recession-players -- though were one to ask a certain consulting detective and the gripey teenaged Nikita, they’d say _the motherfucker had it coming_ ). 

Sherlock solves one cold case (the only one he is given access to) and sends a new series of chemical testing schemes to a laboratory in Ireland.  The first of March stands in (John insists) for a missing “twenty-ninth”, the evening of which the two friends spend in John’s room upstairs, making out sloppily over glasses of wine and telling each other ridiculous stories until John catches Sherlock’s eye and, as he would put it, they each remember how _bloody_ _hot_   the other is. 

***

“The original _cadastre_ , including a certified copy of a will mentioning your status as sole heir and more importantly that there was no _bornage_ on the title upon Mister Hinault’s death, a map of contiguous legal boundaries drawn up by a _géometre_ , title authorised by a _notaire_ in Narbonne, statutory surveys, the title, and so forth.  The sworn translations are beneath in the other file.”  Mycroft is at Baker Street, settled in John’s armchair; he has come to hand deliver two very precious brown envelopes to Sherlock.  He proffers them with multiple layers of disapproval and impatience.  “Here you are, brother.  At _your_ insistence, remember.”

“Mmm.”  Sherlock rifles airily through the papers for a minute, hums again, _even more_ disapprovingly, and rearranges them all as Mycroft sighs and looks away. 

“Sherlock.”

“Mm.  Ah,” Sherlock huffs, springing from his armchair and digging through a stack of papers on the floor by the living room table while Mycroft sighs ostentatiously.  “It's Wednesday.  So you’ll be having tea later with Alex.  Return a book for me?”

“Yeeeesss,” Mycroft grumbles and glances down at his pocket watch admiringly.

Sherlock hands Alex’s illustrated encyclopedia of homoerotic art to his brother with his tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek. 

Mycroft sniffs.  “Uproarious.”

“I’ll return it.  Shall I tell him you didn’t care to?”

“Your _effrontery --_ ”

“Mmm.  Problem?”

Mycroft curls his fingers.  “I have _one_ that’s disturbingly _permanent_ in nature, yes.” 

“Change doctors and don’t give up hope,” Sherlock quips, tipping his head with a smirk.  Mycroft is far more amusing, Sherlock has decided, with a fresh pressure point.  Or two.  Plus, he is more easily removed from the flat than he has been in years.  _Excellent._  

Once the ginger eminence has departed, Sherlock grooms himself to a more satisfactory polish, dresses in a dark gray suit and light blue shirt, throws on his coat and swishes into the street with a black leather folio in one gloved hand.  He catches a cab to _Rocher, Rocher and Lenteman_ , the London affiliate of the solicitor’s in Narbonne, who is to act on his behalf in the sale of the Lagrasse property.  

The deal is done. 

***

Sherlock doesn’t consider himself to have a romantic cell in his entire corporeal structure but unbeknownst to anyone (nearly anyone:  there is Alex-as-repository, regarding his intent), he is very carefully _weaving a love nest for his soldier_ , as his ever-nosey elder _blood_ had once expressed things.  Weaving, indeed.  Sherlock knows precisely where and when he wants _that_ question ( _suggestion? perhaps suggestion?_ ) to take place, the way he plans to provoke _that_ discussion, has envisioned the reaction he expects, and has contingency plans for every eventual outcome -- including a sudden urge for public sex ( _roped off stairs to closed garret in Festung Hohensalzburg, west elevation_ ). 

John ( _tauntingly!_ ) seems even more oblivious to all things of importance than usual.  To his credit, he appreciates Sherlock’s increasing neediness  and nervous energy:  it means up to double the usual number of intense shags a week.  _Jitters are good._   _Bloody good...are there any other forensics conferences in Europe coming up?  Need to check._   A third of a new quart-jar of honey is already missing, some of which has helped John experience yet another first:  a singular dimension of mind-blowing touch under the wickedly determined tongue of his phoenix.  It _is_  odd to trip over Sherlock so often in the flat.  But as far as John is concerned, Sherlock is jittery over his upcoming paper in Passau.

Sherlock _is_ jumpy over giving the paper.  He thinks about it multiple times a day (an average of fourteen -- _annoying_ ) and tries not to relate it to other public speaking incidents he’s been part of, which is utterly impossible.  Therefore he reminds John frequently that they will leave for Passau via Munich on the twenty-fifth, the conference will last three days and consist of twelve sessions with three papers in each; Sherlock’s and Rainer’s papers are during the first session on the second day.  On the morning of the twenty-ninth, when they will have been together seven months, they will move on to Salzburg.  (The rest?  They shall celebrate their formal engagement and dine on _Mozartkugeln_ from _Fürst_ in bed.  And on one another.)

***

In the evening, one not-terribly-fine day, John calmly breathes his way through a crowded Tube ride that he  _really_  doesn’t want to be part of and emerges from the stairs up into the damp night air; he is thinking of his love and how good it will be see him almost twenty minutes earlier than usual -- when Mycroft’s car pulls up at his side.  He considers ignoring it or kicking it and then pivots toward it and climbs in with a growl.  There are a couple of things they might as well talk about, he thinks.   _Why not_.

The conversation begins and carries on as poorly as any other between John and Mycroft and is marked by shadows of accumulated resentments.  Par for the course, so far.

“Changing the subject?  Look.  Doesn’t it matter that he’s not doing well?”  John has just finished explaining why he thinks Sherlock is responding so slowly to his course of antibiotics.  The endoscopy had shown the suggestions of duodenum irritation, and he cannot keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.  He is too hungry and wound up for that.

“What matters is the outcome, long-term.”  Mycroft seems to be able to shrug without moving a muscle.  It is a dismissive tone -- the one which sets John off without fail. 

John blows out an impatient breath.  “This would be a hell of a lot easier if we were working together, I think.”

“Aren’t we?” Mycroft asks, leaning back in his seat.

“Care to explain what I’m doing here?” John grips the edge of Mycroft’s desk, as if callipering it with his fingertips.

“John, I’ll be brief.  Sherlock expressed intent to move to France.”

“Yeah.  Guess that went out the window.”

“The security committee had certain objections to his living in France.”  Mycroft runs a finger along the armrest of his chair.

“Yeah, I know.  What was the main reason, actually, if I may ask?” John asks, glancing up at the portrait of the Queen over Mycroft’s head.

“Vulnerability to pressures from foreign security agencies, above all.”

“Where Sherlock might be approached by foreign secret services while he tends _beehives_ , making _your section_ vulnerable,” John suggests, more to the painting than to the elder Holmes.

Mycroft brushes that aside.  “You agreed to accompany him to France, is that correct?”

“Yeah, sure,” John replies.  “Then someone sort of got in the way of that.”

“Well.  He was counting on a waiver.”

“Waiver _for what_.  He’s not serving a formal sentence!”

“Ah, for murder and treason?  True.  Yet your perspectives on concepts like _formality_ and _sentencing_ differ from mine, I grant you that,” Mycroft remarks.

“He didn’t have a legal trial by jury, which is what I acknowledge,” John replies.

“Mmm,” Mycroft hums, almost like Sherlock.  His face seems to change during a tense pause in which John starts formulating his exit.  “You never looked up photographs of Lagrasse,” Mycroft demurs.

“No, actually,  I didn’t.” 

“A quiet, historic village of nearly 600 inhabitants, initially constructed on the orders of Charlemagne himself, with narrow medieval streets and a distinct Abbey, not far from the Mediterranean Sea.  The property was remote, and the house in a poor state of repair.”

“Supposedly.”

“And your curiosity never got the better of you?”

“It wasn’t a material decision.”  John exhales edgily.  “It was for his benefit.”

“Now think on that, doctor.  What actually benefits Sherlock?”

John blinks.  “Working.  What about that?  The work?  In the absence of work, and being filmed and tapped, we can see what’s happening to his health!”

“He has cares, yes.” Mycroft purses his lips and then turns his gaze on John meaningfully.

“Yeah, a few.  Heh.  Sure.  Where did those come from.”

“I expected you would look after him, and not multiply them.” Mycroft opens a drawer at his left hand and reaches into it.

“Yeah, uh.  I suppose if you were able to, you’d do it better?” John retorts, defensively.

“John, is that really your most intelligent line of response?”  Mycroft keys up a video image on a small tablet and holds it out in John’s direction.

John doesn’t move to take the device, nor does he look down at it, though he has an impulse to put his fist through it.  _You and fuck knows who else log in and out and watch us eat, shit, sleep.  Fuck you all._

“What is that?” John asks, nostrils flaring, as a tremour unexpectedly goes through his hand.  He curls it over the arm of the chair he is sitting in.

“Tell me.  What do you see, John?” Mycroft asks.

John stubbornly avoids looking down at the screen.  “I see a few bureaucrats keeping Sherlock in a sort of exile.  And what you’ve quietly done to his career is a scandal that would shock the entire country.  And beyond.  Think about it!  Imagine what he could be doing!”

“Oh, yes.  Serving a life sentence without parole among England’s brightest and best.  England would be _delighted_ over that.  You and I are both able to imagine how he’d weather it, as well.”

John bites his lips.  _No._  

“And today, he is writing a paper and working on another series of timed chemical experiments on polymers, and preparing a test schedule, at the table.  Ah.  Glancing over at the cooker.  He expects you.”  Mycroft sighs if he were discussing a cable-network reality show pairing.  It occurs to John that he is doing so, in a sense. 

“Well, yeah, I was sort of on my way home from work,” John reminds him.

“How domestic is his idea of bliss.  So well-behaved.  Who’d have imagined?”

“Are you taking the piss?” John huffs.  “Laughing, at him?  Who the hell --”

“ _John_ , please.  Haven’t you realised it yet?”

“Realised _what_.” John grimaces as a rivulet of sweat streaks unevenly down his back. 

“His only real source of misery all along has been imagining that _you_ are bored by him.” 

“Sure.”

“He’s consensually wearing a gold ring on his hand,” Mycroft continues.

“So are you,” John points out.

“Yes, I am.”

“Inherited?”

“In a manner of speaking.”  Mycroft’s eyes narrow at John’s hand.  “Amusing, the way he has kept it all from you.  Concerned for you.”  He sighs loudly. 

“Can we get to the -- point?”  _Fuck you.  Fuck you!_

“Yes.  There exists a precedent, John.  I’d suggested it as an avenue to obtain a waiver from the committee to leave for France.”

 _Oh, shit.  Maybe the same ‘offer’ Sherlock mentioned._  John leans forward slightly.  “A legal precedent, then?”

“No.” 

 _Out of legal bounds.  Sketchy._  John shifts in his seat.  “Yeah, because...how would it apply if he hasn’t had -- a trial.”

“It is an _operative_ precedent, John.  Which is of _more_ significance,” Mycroft replies. “I will not trouble you with an explanation of the difference, which is extraneous to our purposes, today.”

 _Sod your ceremonial jargon._   “So this ‘avenue’ you mentioned.  It was connected to this -- operative --”

“ _Operative precedent_.  Indeed.”

“Sherlock refused it?”

“Yes, wholeheartedly.  And he has even elected to sell his Mediterranean property, over it.  Demonstratively.”

 _What?_   “Over...what.  What do you mean.” 

Mycroft shakes his head.  “He does _love_ dramatic gestures from which there is little hope of return.”

John tips his head and furrows his eyebrows.  “Right...I guess he had a good reason for it.”

Mycroft raises a brow at him.  “I should like to think so, but I admit I’m not sure.  I was hoping _you’d_ know more.”

 _Something is bloody off, here._   John swallows.  “So, it would have pertained to him doing _what_?”

Mycroft sucks in a breath.  “Accompanying his _spouse_ abroad,” he declares.

John pales.  He has the feeling that he should not open his mouth, yet it _has_ dropped open.  His brain is on fire; at least, it seems to have gone red and soft inside; his desire for details has vaporised; he cannot remember what he’d wanted to know in the first place.

“Do you wish to state _your_ position?” Mycroft asks.  

John stares. 

Sherlock’s soldier fellow is shattered, Mycroft dockets.   _No surprise, there._  

John’s entire body wants out of that office.  _Now_.  

“Your thoughts, John?” Mycroft prods.  _My brother is a fool, stubborn to the point of burning Rome._

John stands uneasily from his chair.  “Wh - at --” 

Mycroft nods and uncrosses his arms.  “Yes.”  He raps his fingers on his desk top.  “And that is the reason I insist you take the car, today.”

The irony is lost on John, now.  But it is certainly not the first time John has left the _Diogenes_ agitated to distraction.  He doesn’t even notice Mycroft’s long, shiny vehicle until the door flies open and the driver exits, politely but decisively reminding _Doctor Watson (Sir!)_ to get in. 

The man does not remind John to breathe, however, which proves far more relevant in the minutes that follow.


	35. Would have

Sherlock has steaming Minestrone soup with small meatballs for John on the table, next to his hand.  He hears the door downstairs and the corners of his mouth quirk; he is holding a dropper very still and watching for a colour change -- until John enters the kitchen without having removed his coat.  Nervous energy positively radiates from him and Sherlock turns his head to look him up and down.   _Oh._

“Good evening, John,” he says, setting down the dropper and moving to stand.

“Hmm.”

“News?” Sherlock asks casually.

"Hhh -- yeah."

"And?"

“Operative precedent,” John nods to the side and cracks his neck as he tries to shrug some of the tension out of it.

Sherlock’s stomach sinks.  He straightens and opens his mouth.  “Sir Rodney Ellis Shrewsbury, Junior, youngest son in a marginally-respectable landed family, strangled a neighbour, dubious self-defence claims.  Immunity, never put on trial, now deceased.  Marriage of convenience, allowed to leave the country because his wife had inherited property in Spain,” he confirms, quickly. 

“Allowed.  To leave the country.” John darkens even more.

“Yes.” 

The heat in John’s eyes suddenly ignites.  It is terrible to watch.  “You _refused_ to leave England?  Refused a way out -- from your _brother_ \-- because -- it would mean accompanying a _spouse_?  Have I got that right?” John asks.  

Sherlock nods his confirmation, once, his mouth now shut in a tight line.  _No.  No.  No._

“Meaning.  Accompanying me, married.  If you married _me_.”  John asks, shifting his feet dangerously as if he were steeling himself.  To throw a hook punch.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, ready for nearly anything.  (So he thinks.)

“Sold _that_ place.  Your own dad’s place.  In France,” John says, shaking his head.  “After asking _if I’d move_ there.  Sold it all, just to avoid _marrying me.”_   John has distractedly wandered away several steps toward the bathroom.  He looks about suddenly and spins around as rage hits all his extremities and he closes the distance between his and Sherlock’s bodies, as if physically pushed into it (he _has_ been pushed, much too far, this time).   He kicks a chair out of his way, snatches Sherlock’s right arm and grips it, shaking it with such violence it pulls open a shirt button at the collarbone; the movement slams his thigh back against the corner of the table.  A choked gulp of pain escapes from Sherlock.  "Huh.  Yeah.  Hurts?  Yeah?  Well I didn't get my _say_ ,” John snarls as he heaves with anger.  He digs his fingers into muscle.  "And I heard it from _him_.  Mycroft Bloody Holmes wanted to hear _my thoughts_.  Doesn’t seem to understand your logic any more than I do.  Now, what the fuck does that even _mean?”_

“Stop there.  Listen.”

"You couldn’t _tell me_ what was going on?  _Why_ you’re selling?  Not just for the _capital_ , all of a sudden, but because _you would never marry me!_ And you wanted to cut that off.  Just cut it off.  Like a -- like a _dead weight!”_

“Under --”

“ _Shut up!_   Look, I know what you think.  Of marriage.  That it’s pointless -- bullshit.  But even.  Even if _you were_ against it.  With every cell in your body.  You should have _told me_ you had that chance.  To leave.  We'd -- _damn it_.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes.  It sets off John even more.

“Look at me!  I live with it, too.  You know?  All of it.  The cameras.  I saw the feed today, on a tablet.  Of you.  The listening and checking and -- worrying.   _Hate_  it.  I want you out of here!  Somewhere quiet, _away from all the fucking microphones and -- shit!  I haaate this shiiiit!_ ”  John bellows, as if toward the devices he knows are in the living room, and it is _horrible;_ Sherlock’s ears are ringing.  “I had something to say.  _As half of us!_ ” he yells a tone higher, shaking Sherlock once more and shoving him as he lets him go.  “Want to know?  Huh?  I _would have gone_ , no matter _what_ I had to do!  No matter what!  I would have done it!  It’s just -- _papers_.  Fucking papers.  Whatever, we’d go, take care of it.  Do it.  Just.  But I.  God _damn_ it, I never got to say _my part!  What am I in this!”_

“I’m so --”

"Sorry?  So am I.  Oh, I am!  Hmmm.  Christ, you could have said."

 “John, please.” 

“Pull it together, for fuck’s sake!  Look at me!  Look me in the face!  This!  See!  This is what you.  Do.  Why don’t you ever tell me what’s happening!   _Why!"_

“John, I made a --"

“Every time.  Every time, you don’t -- tell me.  When there’s danger, how many times.  But -- here.   Here it’s us.  It’s you and me.  And you leave me out of something like that.  Don’t _need_ me.  I don't even get a chance.”

“I need you more than anything else.”

“What for.”  John pats at his wallet and keys and storms back downstairs.  In several more seconds, he has slammed the door behind him. 

***

                _Mortui vivos docent_.  _SH_

Alex is so used to Sherlock knowing odd facts about his life, loves, habits and cares that he takes for granted that his friend is making an illusion to his dead brother, David, whose own fascination with autopsy he’d left behind on large canvases.

_That was David’s tattoo.  Quid agis? Alex_

_Come.  SH_

_OK, in half an hour?  An hour?  Alex_

The exchange is odd and the lack of reply odder still, so Alex sighs, slips on some warmer clothes and calls Mycroft’s driver.  He heads for Baker Street hoping to find his friend in a mischievous mood, sketching severed fingers as he once had, though his intuition is screaming otherwise and he’s quite nervous.  Twenty minutes later, Sherlock opens the door for him downstairs. 

“Hi, Sherlock.  Do you need anything from the shops, or?” Alex asks, avoiding the obvious that Sherlock looks almost cadaverously white, himself, at the brink of a meltdown.

“No,” he hears.

“Well.  Shall we go -- upstairs, or for a small walk?  Get some fresh air?”

“No _air_.”

Alex follows Sherlock slowly to the living room and asks, “Is John here?”  Of course he is not, that much is painfully obvious, but he hardly knows what else to say.

“Gone to Ascot for the night,” Sherlock replies, though that is a deduction he would like very much to prove incorrect.

“A row.”

“And you are here because I want to avoid pushing him even further from myself.”

“No, come now.  He’d go with you to the ends of the earth.”

Sherlock squeezes his teeth.  _Would have._

“Sit with me at the fire.  You’re as white as a sheet.” Alex takes John’s chair and watches Sherlock lower himself into his own across from him, knees up like a split shield.

“My brother,” Sherlock mutters bitterly, “seems determined to continue your acquaintance.”

“Has that become -- ” Alex starts to ask. 

“Therefore,” Sherlock continues over him, “it’s inevitable he will mention the fact that I have a light-sleeping drug habit.”

“Oh.”  Alex blinks and then smiles rather bravely, despite realising all at once that he should _not_ have given over those codeine pills, and they might even be an object of Sherlock’s concern, if he still has any of them left over.  “And you’d rather not be alone, that’s just fine, I’d rather not be alone, either, as it happens, I’m glad you texted,” he says carefully.

“Thank you.”  Sherlock has rarely meant those words so much, to someone who is not John.

“So, then,” Alex says, trying to ignore the click-thudding in his throat,  “I could teach you how to make those crepes you like, or, we could watch _Quantum of Solace_ , it’s on in about half an hour.  He’s just _lovely,_ I adore him.”

“Who?”

“James Bond, of course.  Who.” 

“Oh.”

“Honestly, Sherlock.  Cultural literacy.”

“Mm.”

“It smells as if you were about to have dinner, please go on, by all means.”

“Help yourself.”

“Only if you’re having some.”  Alex had skipped his own dinner to come over, and is tempted.

“No.”  Sherlock shakes his head.

"Oh dear, it's all wrecked.  Is there anything salvageable?"  Alex finds the table covered in puddles of spilled soup and chemicals; even to his eye it is apparent they’d been arguing in the kitchen.  When Sherlock doesn't answer, he sighs and wipes up what he can and sets all of the equipment in a pile; Sherlock stares silently into the fire.

***

“Oh Lord, he’s -- James is so tender here, I could watch this scene a hundred times a day,” Alex moans, as he watches Bond hold his dying friend in his arms while they exchange _sentiments_. 

Sherlock has been sitting nearly thigh to thigh next to Alex with his eyes shut.  He opens them for a moment.  “Tripe.  Ah.  Blood spatter pattern on his hand just changed,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Oh.  Thrown _like that_ , in the rubbish, without a proper burial.  So horrible.”

“Ehh, in that city he’d be found by vagrants within minutes,” Sherlock waves a hand.

“Nobody cares.” 

“The Mathis fellow _isn’t_ dead?” Sherlock asks.

“Of course he’s dead!  He was _shot through_ , he’s more than murdered, look what they _did_ to him.”

“His arm.  Lifted it out of the bin.”

“Really?  From rigor mortis, then?”

“Noooo, at least three hours too early.  To move that far, around ten hours would have to pass.  And it would never end up in that position.  Obviously.  Mm.  Another continuity error.  For a film with that budget --”

“Does John watch telly with you much, then?”

 _“No.”_ Sherlock clouds over even more.

An advert comes on and Sherlock wanders away to the toilet.  While he is scrubbing his hands with a bit too much involvement, trying to calm himself with some recitation, he hears Alex calling him urgently; he emerges and sees his friend standing nervously in front of the telly.  “Sherlock, _hurry_ , look.  It’s John, it’s him, there, isn’t it?”

_“...incident, reductions in maintenance costs and outsourcing are not to blame, as the driver himself claims a brick, a construction brick, we are told, was placed in the path of ....”_

_My John._   Sherlock hisses and dives toward the living room table for his phone; he begins a frenetic search through social networks for alternate accounts and photographs.

Alex turns to Sherlock and tries to hand him the remote control, which Sherlock ignores.  “A brick on the London-Reading line, a bit of a derailment, apparently.  Look, they’re showing it again, just _there_ , behind her.  Gracious Mother, that could have been such a complete disaster.  Oh, thank God,” Alex remarks.  “Hooligans, they wanted to fight someone in the train, they said.  Horrid!  Causing an accident to start a fight!”

A journalist is standing in a light rain under a large umbrella and a floodlight; as footage rolls from minutes before, they see John as a blur in a black jacket, barking at several men (fellow passengers), evacuating people and leading them away, lest anyone enter the train and start demolishing it in the dark; his voice is unmistakable. 

 _“Mute that!”_ Sherlock barks.

Alex hands have started shaking and he sits down.  He turns to Sherlock, who is bent over his phone at the window, where he is watching a short amateur film.  “How lucky they are,” Alex says, “You’re so lucky as well, Sherlock, he's a natural leader.  Are you all right?  Come, you’re -- pasty.  He’s fine, you see he is, the best of the lot of them, he’s quite fine, I’m sure he’ll come home soon.”

***

_John, I don’t know what’s happened but Sherlock is beside himself.  Do come home.  Alex_

_You were a great help on the train.  We saw on telly.  Please come home, now.  Alex._

_Come home.  It’s very urgent.  Alex_

_OK.  Gave a statement to police.  On my way._

***

Alex meets John at the top of the stairs, close to midnight.  “Good you’ve come home safely,” he says quietly.  “We were both worried, but I see you’re all right.  Aren’t you.  What you did was remarkable, and -- many people should be grateful to you for your quick thinking, you calmed many of them down, certainly.”

“Thanks, uhm.  Not -- uhm, need to.  Sorry.” John looks terrible, haggard even, far older than usual, but Alex can’t decipher his expression at all, though that is nothing new to him.

“Do you need anything more from me?” the artist asks.

“Wh -- no.  Uhm.  No.  Just.  You should go home.  I’ll call you a cab.”

“Thank you, I have -- I’ll call and wait downstairs, lock up behind me?”

“Sure.  I’ll see you out.”

John precedes Alex slowly as he orders his ride and leans his back against the wallpaper by the door with a quiet sigh.

“Jesus Christ,” John mumbles when he thinks they’re out of earshot, in the foyer downstairs.

“I’ve no idea what happened, John, but he did bravely until he saw the news on telly.”

“Hmm.  Yeah, bloody brick on the line.  Hooligans.  A few fans on the train they were after, they started a brawl trackside, _sodding_ _idiots_.”

“Yeah.  We were watching Bond and I changed the channel -- well, I saw it by chance.”

“Hmm.”

“Sherlock's under a lot of strain.  He wouldn’t come out of the toilet until I told him you were coming back, he scared me to death, please talk to him.”

“Not tonight.”

“John, regardless of the cause, don’t draw this out any longer.  He’s in bed, now.  Stomach issues.  He -- well.  He vomited after he’d been watching news films on his phone.”

“Oh God.  Right.”

“I brewed mint, I didn’t know what else to give him.  I’d no idea he has so many problems with his stomach.”

“Hmm.  Yeah.  Are you -- feeling all right, yourself?”

“I’m fine, John.  Sorry to be in the middle, here.  He -- didn’t care to be alone, and --”

“All right.  It’s perfectly -- all right.  Good you’re here.”

“I’m not sure I was particularly helpful.”

“I’m sure you were.  Look.  Did he -- tell you?  What he did?”

“No, I didn’t exactly ask for details.”

“No, I know.  Uhm.”

“If you need mediation --“

“No.  Thanks.  I’m -- uhm.  Yeah.  At the end of my rope, actually.  Hah.”

Alex gulps.  “What made you feel that way?” 

“Some things I had to hear.  From his brother.  Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Alex replies, his eyes widening at the mention of the elder Holmes.  “If you’re feeling this way.”

“Look.”  John bites at the inside of his cheek and examines the artist for a couple of seconds.  “Sherlock -- talks to you?  Sort of?”

“I suppose,” Alex answers, cautiously.

“Did you -- uhm.  Did you know Sherlock was selling property abroad?  Just -- did he ever say anything about it or why?”

“No.  Nothing.”

“Part of the reason was I think -- I think to, huhhmmm.  I don’t know why the hell I’m even telling you this.  Just.  Forget it.”

“It’s fine, you might stop there.  Or we’ll talk it through, I don’t mind, John.”

“It’s about facts.  Look.  You’re already in the middle of this, so.  Did he -- say -- anything to _you_ about France, or not wanting -- to -- not wanting -- civil -- uhm.  A civil -- union, or?”

“France?  No.  It sounds complicated.  Bring things to a safe point tonight, for both of you, and then work it through tomorrow, the next day, for however long.”

“I’m done.”  John rubs his face and shakes his head.  “Need to -- damn.  Sorry for -- this.”

 _Civil union.  The impetus to marry -- not joyful._   Alex considers very carefully what on earth Mycroft could have said to John, that Sherlock might have planned behind his back, that would be so volatile.  “There was one thing,” Alex ventures.  “That strikes me as important.”

John looks up.  “What.  Just tell me.”

“It was not regarding -- it was said in confidence.”  Alex’s heart is fluttering with nerves. 

“ _So what_.”

“Well, he’s in such a state, and things have gone far enough that I feel absolved in telling you.  He _wants_ to marry.  But I know nothing about any property, he’s never mentioned anything about it.”

John sniffs and shakes his head distractedly, biting his lips.  “Is that the truth?” 

“God help me.  Yes.  It is.”

“Do you think his brother knew that?  That he wants to?”

“Oh.  Certainly not.”

“Hmm.  Right.  Okay.  Good.”

“John, there’s more.  Accept my apologies.  I’m so --“

_“What.”_

“I learned tonight that I made a very serious mistake.  I never realised that he struggles with addiction, and I gave him a bottle of codeine pills well over a month ago, in case of migraine.  I'm terribly sorry, I'd no idea.”

 _Serious danger night._   “Jesus.  Right, you didn’t know.  But he _took_ them?  Just accepted them?”  John looks so pained now that Alex touches his arm; John flinches without meaning to. 

“Yes, but.  He asked me to come here, because he didn’t want to act out in spite of some difficult emotions.  You might ask him to give them over.  I think he would.”

“Thanks for -- coming clean on that.  God, I’ve had it tonight.  This.”

“I’m sure you have.” 

“Thanks for stepping up and, yeah.  I really appreciate it, you’ve, uhm.”  John grimaces and puts out his sweaty hand; Alex shakes it.

“It’s nothing at all.  That sounded like a car, perhaps?” Alex says, cracking open the front door.  “Yes.  Do take care, John.  And take care of each other.  Good night, now.”

“Night.  Thanks.”

Alex pulls his coat closer to his throat and climbs into a car that to John looks exactly like Mycroft’s, but he is still in the mental space of a medic with an unhealthy portion of fight or flight tearing at him; he is far too distracted to think about it.  He shuts the door, locks it and turns away to go upstairs again.

***

When Alex has seated himself in the car, all the tension that has sloughed his nerves raw for several hours flows out at once and he falls apart behind the tinted glass; he hopes with every mote of sincerity he’s got that he’s done the right thing in revealing Sherlock’s intentions; for all he knows, that had been the bone of contention, itself.  The car parks in front of his building; the driver exits to open the door, averts his eyes, presses an envelope into Alex’s palm and bows.  He and his car vanish into the night, much as Alex would like to.  He drags himself indoors and seats himself near his kitchen window, peels an orange, and decides that if he's received another invitation, he will refuse, no matter how attractive the event; he begins to compose an appropriate repudiation in his mind -- it's clear enough the row has its roots in the ongoing conflict between the brothers.  The envelope contains only an ivory card, which he flips over.  Written in exquisitely-trained calligraphy, with the sort of feathery embellishing he would associate with Georgian-era signatures (dozens of tiny flourishes added without lifting the pen, as though one could hardly bear the idea of ending his message, for that is how it _had_ been) there is but a single word:  _Essential._ He tosses it down.  All wounds opened wide, Alex weeps at the edge of madness.  A camera across the way swivels sharply aside.  (Two nearly-unendurable days later, Mycroft will receive a card in return at the _Diogenes;_   Alex will refuse to follow it with a visit: drawn entirely in ink ( _a dip pen with a steel nib_ ), it is a tangle of underground pipes, valves and root systems, stylised so that when one looks closely -- and one does -- a word appears:   _INSOLUBLE._ )

***

Today, John has had to take the word of two (no, three) other men about what is going on in his life, right over his head.  As if he hardly has a say or a place.  He feels insignificant.  Yet again.  More immediately, he feels almost out of his own mind and body with stress and exhaustion.  He turns, takes several deep breaths, and goes upstairs to try and face Sherlock, who he doesn’t even want to see, right now.  Alex is right, though, and he knows it -- they need to reach a safe point so they don’t do any more damage.  He can’t take any more.  His head is killing him.  _How has this even happened._   His stomach is rumbling for the dinner he never got to and he stinks to hell; he needs to scrub up.  He steps into the bathroom and washes his hands and face carefully.  He glances up at the mirror.  _Shit, what am I doing._   He shakes his throbbing head and goes into the bedroom to gaze for a long moment at Sherlock’s angular back and waist, wrapped tightly in blankets, the somewhat childish sort of cocooning he does when he is upset or ill, or both.  There is a half-drunk mug of tea on the bedside table.  Sherlock himself is completely still, _waiting for the next attack_ , thinks John.

And John doesn’t know how to start, at all.  He shuffles his weight and curls his fingers, bites his lips.  Finally he pulls off his trousers and shirt and climbs in behind Sherlock’s back in his vest and pants. 

“I’m angry.  But I’m here.”

Sherlock nods. 

“Listening?” he asks. 

“Forgive me.” 

“Hmm.”

“Not what I wanted,” Sherlock answers, quietly. 

“Uhm.”  John shakes his head. 

“Not what I _intended_.”

John coughs quietly.  Sherlock curls at the waist.

“We’ve had -- we’ve -- hmm.” 

Sherlock turns over but keeps his face hidden against John’s shoulder, which makes John squirm. 

“Can you.  Uhm.  I need a shower.”

_“No.”_

John doesn’t talk for several minutes and just when Sherlock is considering another attempt at apology, John opens his mouth.

“I wanted to go the hell wherever, just -- thought I’d go out to Ascot, see Will.  So fucked off at you.”

Sherlock nods.

“Just.  When the train -- uhm.”

Sherlock puts his arm around John’s back.  John lets him.

“It started braking and I knew something was coming, and.  It hit that fucking thing, not hard, but.  Enough to knock us aside.  I was in the fourth car and it slammed me out of my seat.  I’m all right, just headache from --”

“Force of impact.”

“Nerves.  And.  For a second --“  John breaks off and puts an arm around Sherlock, too, squeezing him gently.  “I was thinking, _why_ ,” John continues, rubbing his nose in Sherlock’s hair.  “Went and left you, and.   _Sodding wreck_ \-- not a wreck, just.  First thought.”  John’s voice is tightening.  “Know?”

"Mhm."

John pauses, clears his throat and takes a heavy breath.  “Some people were sort of in shock, scared, and.  A couple eyebrows and a knee that needed stitches.  Bruising.  Lucky, really.  Nothing too bad.  So we sort of lined them up.  To look them over, you know, and.  See, uhm.  There was this bloke in the wagon.  Sort of jabbering on his phone before.  I heard some things about patients, so.  Uhm.  When we stopped I went and got him but he was a dentist, so, he went through fast with me to look for kids or -- you know.  Fucking hooligans waiting -- lined up outside, to start a brawl when the fans tried to come off -- so.  Good you called Alex.  Good.  Uhm.”

“John, I --” 

“No.  Just.  I need the rest of that codeine.  Give it."

Sherlock covers his face with his hands and presses at his eyes.

“ _Give_ it.”

“Drawer.” 

The hair on John’s arms stands on end as he pulls back and leans over to Sherlock’s bedside table and opens the drawer; on top near the back, there is a black and white photograph of himself and Sherlock, kissing madly in a cab -- he can see his own jaw line, out of focus, and the form of Sherlock’s cheekbone and temple; the rest is black.  The only thing that is clear, in the centre of the picture, is his own hand, which is grasping at Sherlock’s arm -- the same hand he’d used earlier on to crush into that same place, above the elbow.  He sets it upright on top of the bedside table and digs further and finds a knife, keys, a tiny vial of scent marked _Синий человек_ , pen drives, their lube (almost gone), a razor clam shell from Norfolk, a pair of scissors, tape and -- John’s eyes fall on another vial, with largish, elongated white pills in it.   “They’re here?”  John pops open the bottle; he’s seen it before and ignored it.   _Oh, God.  Oh.  Shit.  Right under my nose._   John pulls away, takes the (eight remaining) pills and stalks off to the bathroom with them; he flushes them down the toilet and tosses the vial into the rubbish.  He takes a moment to calm himself before returning to the bedroom.  _Have to talk, no blaming shit.  No shit.  Breathe.  Don’t lose it_.  _Used?  When!_   “Any others?” he asks from the doorway to the bedroom.  “I want all of them.”

Sherlock shakes his head and doesn’t reply, which is anomalous in itself.  John, in spite of his intense disappointment, wants to take back his swearing, yelling and bruising from earlier.  He does the opposite of what Sherlock expects.  He slides back against Sherlock in bed, even closer, and wraps his arms around him, closing all the distance between their bodies at once.  “Jesus, always talk to me.  Please.  This can’t happen.  Can’t.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“I need you _well_.  I need it so bad.”

_“I'm sorry.”_

“I _wanted_ you there.  In France.  We’d.  I want you _out of here_ , somewhere quiet.”  John leans into Sherlock and puts his nose against his bent head.  “Still do.  Listen.  Want beehives in the middle of a field?  We’ll go and do it.  Hear me?  We get the fuck out of here.  Because if you felt like you needed those _bloody pills_ it means you need out.  Of _here_.  Or out of something.”

“Mmm.”

“Or.  Look.  Do you -- want out of this?  Tell me.”

“ _No!_ ”

“If I’m not giving you what you need.”

_“Don’t.”_

“Do you _know_ what you are to me?”

“Thick.”

“Never.  No.”

“Mm.”

“No more of this.  Alex said you were vomiting, you need to eat and drink something light.  Look -- what I did to your arm.  Look what I did.”  John’s words come back to him; he’d attacked and gone, the same things he wouldn’t be able to bear, were the tables turned.  “I said things.  I want to start over.  All of it.”

“All of what.”

“Everything from when, I don’t know, when I came home.   Before.  Can we?  Just do that?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock pets the hair at the nape of John’s neck.

“Good -- evening.  Love.” 


	36. A delope

Two days drift by, and John and Sherlock drift within them. John sleeps in his room.  Two nights in a row.

His body can’t catch up to the barriers in his head and he wakes up on the second night from a dream of tumbling from the sky, on the edge of orgasm, which he brings to clinical finish.  It leaves him with a feeling that is difficult to describe but not express: his body does that quite unasked, now, and a loud groan of frustration escapes before he can clap his hand over his mouth. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock says suddenly, over breakfast, three hours later.

“It’s sorted.”

“Mm.”

“We’re sorted.  All right?” John coughs.

“You don’t sleep with me.”

“Having issues.  Right now.”

“You -- ” Sherlock clamps his mouth shut.

John sighs.   _Knows._   “Sure.  Happened.  Yeah, it did.  But not -- look, do we have to talk about this?”

“My partner would rather relieve --“

“Stop, _don’t_.  Don’t.”  John rubs his shoulder nervously.  “A stress thing.  I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sherlock shrugs. 

“Sorry,” John adds and bites the inside of his cheek.  Hard.   _Jesus Christ.  Help._

They eat, in a manner of speaking.  John is annoyed by every bite in his mouth; Sherlock can't swallow.

“Take me to bed,” Sherlock says, all at once.

“Wh --“ John won’t refuse, but his knees ache from nerves as he stands and holds out his hand.  “So,” he says quietly.  "Yeah, let's.  Fix this."

The few feet from kitchen to Sherlock's doorway seem too long.  The awkwardness starts to melt away once they are side by side under Sherlock’s blankets.  “It’s unpleasant,” Sherlock tells him, “to wait for you to come around.  I miss you.”

“Oh, God,” John croaks and looks him in the face.  “I’m sorry, come here.  I keep fucking up everything.”

“I fucked up everything first,” Sherlock mumbles.  “I hardly blame you.”

John hugs him tightly and kisses his neck.  “You feel so good.  Always.  Just.”

“John,” Sherlock breathes into his ear, “I’m losing my reason.  Please.”

“I love you so much,” John tells him.  “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

“You’re shaking, are you okay?”

“ _Touch_ me.”

John starts slowly, and pets his head, shoulders, kisses his ear and neck, lets his lips wander to his collarbone and his hand slip over the angles of his ribs, waist, and hip.  “Jesus.  You’re amazing. So amazing.”

“Mm.”

“Want me --“

_“Yes.”_

***

John is running a hand along Sherlock’s thigh and nibbling at his neck as he thrusts into him (deep this time) from behind, growling that he is close -- before pulling out.  And sucking and fingering Sherlock, until he explodes with a yelp, and starts chuckling nervously as he rolls onto his back.  Two tears, of mental exhaustion and relief, run down into both of his ears, and bring him back to the surface.  John is kissing and licking them away. "It's all right, we're all right, love. Sorted. Have you even been sleeping? Come."

It is precisely eleven in the morning.  And elsewhere, because there is a universe beyond Sherlock’s wrecked bed and healing heart, (at least two) other men are looking intently into each other’s eyes, as well.  At the _Diogenes_.

“Thank you. Though I'm not certain why I received this.”  Alex sets Mycroft’s handwritten card on his desk.

“You’re attempting to draw me out on a point that is clear, I should think,” Mycroft says, turning a gaze on Alex that ought to splinter things at an atomic level, but which is being countered with subtle calm, and nothing more.

“I assume you were referring to my presence at Baker Street.  Though that is not without its problems.  Aside from the fact that I called the car, what would you have known of my reasons for going there?” Alex asks.  Somehow, the room holds rather than flying apart. 

Mycroft sets aside a black and white satellite photo that to Alex's eye looks like a mountain chain.  “Ah, yes.”

“And you told John something very painful, knowing how he would react,” Alex continues.

“My brother made an imprudent decision.  John was affected because he had been uninformed.” Mycroft picks up another photograph and narrows his eyes at it. “Well done, anyhow, I received your reply.”

“Thank you.  Though I wanted to send along something different,” Alex responds.

“Really.”

“I’d originally chosen a different word to describe you than ‘insoluble’.” Alex pulls his beautiful magnifying eyeglasses from his pocket and offers them.

Mycroft gestures loosely in refusal. "It's fine, no. And that would be?" 

“ _Generous_.”

Mycroft sniffs and smiles thinly.

“I also found it generous that you would refer to me as essential,” Alex adds.

Mycroft considers Alex’s emotional reaction at the kitchen table to his card, as he’d seen via CCTV, and raises his brows.  “This is about Sherlock.   Our long-standing feuds should not concern you.”

“Yes,” Alex replies, tucking his glasses back into his pocket and folding his hands in front of him.  “Well.  When my best friend finds himself in that sort of distress, for whatever reason, it concerns me.  And when my colleague stands behind it, all the more.  If I can do anything, I want to try to help.” 

"That won't be necessary."

“I believe you know about things that happen in that flat, or his texts.  You monitor Sherlock.”  Alex is thinking of Sherlock’s reticence around his own telephone and the incident in the Viennese cafe, _Hawelka_.

“Alexander.  Sherlock is under surveillance on a probationary basis.  And I assure you the reasons are not trivial.”

“I see.”

“You certainly do not.”

“Either way, I don’t care to know more.  Indulge me, now.”

“Yes?”

“You doubtlessly know a bit about my brother’s career, his appetites, and so forth.  You do?  Well.  We fought but we did care for each other, beneath it all, very much, as you and Sherlock do.  I lost him at a time when we’d finally repaired things and had started talking like _humans_ , and I feel fortunate that we _did_ repair things to a great extent.  Wait.  Please, I know, _one shouldn’t attempt to transfer experiences._ Sherlock has taught me that.  You needn’t point it out to me --” 

“No, I need not.  Nor that you have left the verb ‘to be’ out of more than two dozen consecutive statements so far.  Go on.”

Alex swallows and tries to steady his voice; he speaks as carefully as an old-school film narrator.  “You strike me as worldlier and more judicious in many respects than Sherlock.  Meaning the tone in your relationship ought to come from _your side_.  I see his belligerence toward you.  But it has come about in response to years of condescension.  You _starve_ your own brother of your positive regard -- and behave self-servingly in relation to him.  Mycroft, if what I say hurts you in any way, please forgive me.  But, your exceptional gifts and knowledge do not _excuse you_ in any way.  Your cynicism comes across as a serious mishandling of your intellect.  Laziness of the heart,” Alex says.  

Mycroft is not _hurt_ , of course, but he is not entirely unaffected, either.  He knows that if his _colleague_ Alex were spiteful ( _or coquettish_ ) he could easily pick apart the bit about “essential to you”.  But he doesn’t even appear to be aware of his significance, as a companion and sounding board for Mycroft’s policy making and strategic cogitations.  “Your brother taught you to talk that way in order to avoid challenges to truth conditions in your assertions,” he deflects, sighing with a shade of irritation. 

“Yeah.  Regarding my own artwork.  Thereby assigning a value to your message, ‘essential’, like ‘I am essential’, becomes problematic.  But that means my choice of word for you becomes meaningless, too.  And here we may begin to be hopeful.  That perhaps I misunderstand your intentions as you seem to misunderstand mine, now.  I only wish to remind you that we have so _few_ people to care for.  _So few_.  Often fewer than we can count on a hand in a lifetime, and they leave us so soon.  So _suddenly_.  Do I even have to tell you this?”  Alex’s heart is so loud to him now that he wishes he could smother it with a pillow. 

 _Care for_.  Mycroft is weary of the continual animosity between himself and Sherlock, as he’d tried to signal on Valentine’s day to little avail, and he knows well that they have used their best years to bring it to its present acme.  Strategist that he is, he sees no immediate means to change it to any significant extent.

In the absence of a reply, Alex stands and presses at his left collarbone, which is now aching.  “Thank you for your time.  Until the Equinox, then.”  He walks back to the door. 

“Where shall we start?” Mycroft asks.

“Sorry?” Alex turns distracted eyes his way and shakes his head.  “I don’t know.  And you said it’s not my concern.”

“And you’ve insisted it is.”  Mycroft crosses his arms.

“Well.  To start?  I suppose, something you dislike.”

“Ah.  Examination of the _individual_ , as you’ve put it.”

“Exactly.  You see, you’re so capable,” Alex tells him.

 _“Stop,”_ Mycroft says all at once.

“Stop what?” Alex answers.

“Flattery doesn’t move me, I’m not my brother.”

“Don’t be _cynical_ toward him for needing praise, consider instead what you yourself withhold,” Alex fires back sharply.  “Where shall we start?  Start from John.  What is influence for, after all?  If you use your unusually privileged position to poke at the man Sherlock loves, _a veteran Captain and medical doctor_ , a man more than worthy of your respect, Mycroft, you’ll never repair a thing.”

Mycroft purses his lips.  “I advise you to calm yourself, you’ve paled.”  He stares over at a pile of folders at his left hand, all (ultra) urgent.

“Perhaps I should,” Alex says, noting the shift in Mycroft’s attention.  “Until the Equinox, then,” he tells him from the doorway.

Mycroft picks up a file and flips it open.  “Stay longer, if you wish.  There are --”

“You don’t calm my heart,” Alex informs him, leaning back against Mycroft’s door and raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft lifts his gaze and piercingly assesses Alex.  “You don’t calm mine, either,” he replies. 

It is a _delope._  They both know it. Alex smiles.  A reflex, at first, to an absurd thought of his own.  But when he sees a shade of amusement forming around Mycroft’s lips in response, his own face relaxes into a broad grin.  _That_ admission of Mycroft’s, and _that_ reaction, unbeknown to the artist, are game changers. 

Alex takes his leave.  He has forgotten his scarf but does not send for it, which is well, because Mycroft has poured himself a tumbler of Armagnac and will not be acquiescent to speaking to _anyone_ (until the Equinox, perhaps).  He drinks for ground lost.  The card itself seems to mock him.  _Essential._ It is not the card (an error), nor the overt returning of the card, but the implicit refusal in Alex’s analysis of the word which plays on Mycroft’s nerves (among other things, which he can't give his attention to, now).  

On the Ides of March, when he is miserable over the destruction of a military helicopter and its classified cargo, and tipsy by early afternoon at his desk, he will finally ask Andrea to bring him everything about the military career of one Sergeant James Kerwin Barrows and will set about reading it, this time with more attention.


	37. The Equinox

John and Sherlock have nearly finished supper, this time one of John’s army-influenced culinary improvs.  They are curled up on the sofa with plates on their knees and mugs of tea on the coffee table, having just watched a fragment of film on Sherlock’s laptop.

John has started rubbing his forehead. 

“Headache?” Sherlock asks.

“Nah, sort of.”

“Delicious.”

“Just some stuff from the fridge, love.”

“In your hands.”

“I’d rather have something else in my hands.”

“Mmm.  Later.”

“Not much later."

“I’ll be out for a short while.”

“Tonight?  Are you going to be doing -- something?”  _That sounded bright._

“And thinking about you,” Sherlock says.

“Hmmm.” 

“I will.”

John leans over at the waist and kisses Sherlock’s neck a bit possessively.  “Like what?”

“Details.”

“Yeah, tell me.”

“I meant organic details.  Like last night, the way you were.” Sherlock takes a deep breath.  _Nnngh._

“Sounds good.” John scoots closer and puts an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Nature.”  Sherlock puts his plate on the coffee table in front of them both.

“Nature?”

“So intricately evolved, yet, well.  Monogamy.”  Sherlock’s hands have started trembling.  John looks at them and furrows his brow.

“There’s -- monogamy in nature.  Swans, you know, wolves,” John remarks.

“I would stare into your eyes for days.  Natural laws wouldn’t support that.  Even though it is the most natural desire I have.”

John blinks, quite stunned, and touched.  _Nobody ever talked to me like that._   “Hmmm, love you.”  John kisses Sherlock’s chin, which often makes him smile; this time it doesn’t.  He looks to be drifting toward a world of his own. John leans his head on Sherlock’s chest and rubs his temple against it.  _So much.  God._

“John?”

“Yeah, beautiful.”

“Tell me if you would still consider a civil union.”

John shakes his head clear a little and sits back.  _This is happening._  

There is a short silence when both men look at each other, close up but without entirely meeting one another’s eyes.  John swallows and breathes noisily.  “Hmm.  I didn’t count on having _this_ , ever.”

Sherlock seems to be gathering his wits.  He rubs his lips with his long fingers and glances about them; he squeezes his teeth tight for a second.  “This.”It is part confirmation, part question.  He is keenly aware of how touchy things are after their row and cannot calm his breathing.  _Annoying._

“You.  I meant you,” John says.  John’s warm fingers on the back of Sherlock's hand are a reminder that this is between the most familiar of friends and not an abstracted scene to be _survived through_.

“Mm.” 

“We could do it,” John says.

“In secret?”  Sherlock asks.

“No.  No.  We’d tell whoever we felt like.  Like we have done, so far.  It’ll be published, you know, made public, anyhow,” John answers.  “Everyone will know.  At some point.  Put the record straight.”

“I wanted to bring this up, elsewhere,” Sherlock says, exerting no small effort to control himself from jumping up and pacing.  “Spring it on you in a picturesque setting.  As they do.”

John holds Sherlock’s shoulder more tightly, which is just as well.  He licks his lips and sits back again.  “It’s all fine.”

“But the reason I’d decided to sell the property, do you see?”

“Not -- really.”  John is biting his lip, nervous.  He raises his eyebrows and looks expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock swallows at the earnestness in that look. “To remove the scenario of marriage as a legality, for an ends.  My brother would have presented it to the committee, but there was no guarantee they would approve it.  If we married on the _chance_ they’d agree, and they refused, you would be obliged to me on hollow contingencies.  It would be a _nightmare_.”

“I don’t know what you mean.  Life at your side is no nightmare.”

“Brilliant that you can still say so,” Sherlock replies.

“And, uhm.  You know."

“Sorry?”

“You can still ask.”

Sherlock turns the full weight of his intense, lead-gray eyes on John and says, simply, “Formalise this, with me.”

John tips his chin up.  “I will.”

“I might have said that differently,” Sherlock remarks.

“Nah.”

“I meant, formalise our involvement, in marriage.” 

“Yes.”

Sherlock drops his head and chuckles.  “Dreaming.”

“Nope.”  John takes Sherlock’s hand and kisses his knuckle, just above the heavy band on his finger.  “We’re doing this.”

“When?” Sherlock asks.

“When?  Hmmm --“

“I meant the formalities themselves.”

“I’ll dig out my papers and, then, we’ll go and register things, whenever.” John rubs his forehead and pinches his nose.

“Okay.  In the morning?”

“I have to see what I -- need.  Jesus.  What’s wrong with me.”

“Worried?”

“No, not -- no.”  John answers.

“What is it.” 

“Marrying you, love.”

“I’ve introduced a contagion,” Sherlock suggests, trying to smile.

“Hah, yeah.  Well, you’re the only one who brings this on.”  John touches his chest and looks away.  “You’re in here, you know?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, love.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Not the full stomach....”  (John sniffs a small laugh.)  “John.  Whiplash from the derailment.  You’ll see the neurologist.  Come, soldier.”

Sherlock takes John’s face in his hands and kisses him.  _He’s changed.  Been changed._ John needs to lie down and have some quiet.  It’s worrying. 

They get up together and go into the bedroom and Sherlock sets about fluffing pillows for him.

“Stay here?”  Either the new situation is making John anxious or the pillows have set something off in his mind.  He needs to calm it down and complains to himself quietly about it as he settles in. 

They kiss and Sherlock pets him until he drops off.  Gone definitively are the days when he could merely look away and reason himself out of moments like these, but it is a trade-off, one of so many to uphold this life of theirs.   _Ours._ He indulges some of his perplexity over his own happiness; John is already in a deeper cycle now and won’t see how concerned he is and try to kiss it away. When he cannot. _Repose-toi, mon loup_.  Sherlock buries his fingers in John’s hair again; with his free hand he slowly reaches over, picks up his phone and switches off the sound.

He silences John’s phone next, scrolls through his contacts and starts texting in John-speak:

                _Hey Darrell, need a follow up.  John Watson_

_No problem, I’ve got 4 hrs tomorrow at CC, or Thurs after 16 we’ll fit you in.  Call reception.  D_

_OK Got in a run-in with a brick on a rail-line, should check things.  JW_

_Sure as hell should.  Come by.  D_

John snores more loudly, once, and turns onto his other side.  Sherlock sets the phone down, presses up against his back and holds his chest; John hums and gropes at his hand in his sleep until he has it wrapped tightly in his own.  The monogamist holding him so close from behind wants to challenge the laws of nature and stay like that forever.

But.  Spring is in the air.  Sherlock is freshly engaged.  And in accordance with the laws of his _own_ nature, he has a bit of mischief on his mind.

***

Sherlock’s artist friend has been seated for the past several hours in a corner of a ballroom at one of “the Residences” and has sketched nine small portraits.  Six he had completed before the ballet (of abbreviated length but of no mean splendour, in terms of the costumes and spectacular talent of the troupe of twenty-two from St. Petersburg) and the other three after it.  The evening has been breathtaking in many ways already.  Mycroft, by contrast, is silent and impersonal, but has kept his word and introduced Alex when it matters -- not as his colleague (of course) nor as a draughtsman, but as a portraitist.  They had agreed that Alex would go home at eleven.  That hour has been gradually pushed forward and it is ten to twelve when Alex decides to leave and seeks out Mycroft, who is outdoors on a terrace, smoking.

“Nearly midnight,” Alex says, and Mycroft pivots at the waist to look at him.  “My pencils will soon turn back into mice.  Once again, thank you for the chance to be here, tonight.”

“Of course.  Ah.  Someone wished to express his regards.”  Mycroft averts his eyes again and stares out into the darkness.  “Leonid, the danseur,” he says.

Alex nods, sighs in the fresh air, and looks up at the sky.  Starry patches, among dark clouds.

“I’m awaiting news --” Mycroft blows out a stream of smoke.   “-- Of dire importance.  Don’t assume I can pay you mind now.” 

“I'd made no such assumption.  Goodnight.” Alex bows and returns to the din of the great room.

Word arrives immediately afterward:  a skirmish with _those_ militants over _that_ forking has been suppressed but with the loss of three lives.  Mycroft encircles the indifferent railing in his fist, shakes off his rage and enters the hallway several minutes later to see Alex speaking to Leonid, who suddenly moves in to say something in his ear.  The fiend makes Alex laugh.  Alex leans away and indicates another guest with a gentle wave.  The scene is exasperating to Mycroft, who stands like a stone, paralysed in the same warm-toned lighting of a massive chandelier of Venetian manufacture that enhances the intense blue colour of a heavy silk twill scarf Alex is wearing -- with a blue and white pattern of ancient Chinese floral motifs (so that his dress shirt will not irritate his scarring).  The artist, though greying, is remarkably pretty.  It is not a welcome thought.  Nor is the realisation that during the entire evening, he has been _ideally_ apposite and patient with even the most insipid guests -- some of whom have been drinking too quickly and hardly leave him alone in their desires to talk about the art of -- themselves.  He hasn’t talked rubbish and has fielded the greetings, titles, bows and courtesies better than many in the _corps diplomatique_ with whom Mycroft has the misfortune of brushing his metaphorical elbows; he finds he cannot watch his _colleague_ now without damaging the enamel on his own molars.  Alex suddenly breaks away at last and leaves in the direction of the cloakroom. 

When the artist approaches the counter top he sees a familiar, and _very_ welcome face.  He nearly shrieks, “Sherlock!  What are you doing in the -- outerwear!  I’m so happy to see you, though.  Why are you _here_?”

“I came for a midnight review of my brother’s security staff.  So far so good?”

“Oh, Lord.  You mean -- how did you get in?  You can’t just walk in to an event with members of -- Gracious Peter.”

“Calm yourself, Alex.  You. Are well put-together.”  Sherlock winces at himself.  Alex looks _good_.

“Thank you, I’m absolutely petrified.  But they’re so nice, all of them.  And the dancers.  You should have seen them.  Or did you?”

“No.  The rest?  Lethal concentrations of hopeless bores as usual?”

“Very fine.  Oh, I’m still -- shocked.  Sorry.”  Alex waves his hands a bit.

“Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m marrying John.”

“Oh!” Alex exclaims.  “ _Oh!_   Oh, wonderful, what a night, _oh_ , wonderful!  I’m so happy for you, you’ve worked things through, then, of _course_ you have.  What a relief.”

“Well.  Now it appears I’m in need of a best man.  And.  Well.  Since you’re here.”

Alex starts laughing hysterically.  “Ah ha ha - ha ha!”

Sherlock snickers sheepishly.  “So?”

“You are _outrageous_.  I’m sorry, I can’t -- _even_.  Oh, Sherlock.  So wonderful.” Alex wipes his eyes.

“You haven’t answered.  You just said you _can’t_?” Sherlock smiles at him again.

“Of course I will.  Ah ha - ha ha!  I’m so happy for you, I can’t believe it.  Or, rather, I can.  It was meant to be, it was.”  

“Well.  Either way, it’s taking place.”

“Oh, when?  Do you have the date set?”

“No.  Well. Not yet,” Sherlock replies.

“Ha.  This is -- too much.” Alex puts an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and hugs him, loosely, because he still cannot bear to be held too close, himself, and Sherlock seems to prefer crushing embraces by default.

“Stop that crying, it’s a legal formality, for God's sake,” Sherlock huffs, but even he cannot pretend his indifference for long.

“The best sort _imaginable_.”

“And _not_ a social call.”

“How many people will you invite?” Alex asks.

“As I said, not a social call.”

“Then I am all the more grateful that you would think of me.  Who asked whom, then?”

“I asked him, for purposes of clarification.” Sherlock grins again, until his eyes crinkle at the corners; he’s still very pleased with himself; it’s fresh, and surprisingly fun to share.  “So you’ll sign.”

“With both hands, if I can find a way.  Lord, we have to celebrate this.  Just perhaps not _here_.”

“No.  Next stop.  Where’s your elder half?”

“Elder -- excuse me? Oh, Mycroft? I’m not sure.  He was outdoors earlier.  I was leaving for home, just now. Elder half!”

“No.  Now, to the gents’ for a moment.  You have a text to answer and -- oh -- see?  There’s nobody to tend the cloakroom.” Sherlock leaps over the counter top and rubs his hands together. 

“I’ve got a text?”

“It pinged half a minute ago.”

“Did it?  I’m all red-eyed now, I can’t go back like this.”

“Smile.  Who _cares_?”   _Excellent question, indeed._  

Sherlock gleefully watches the storm in his brother’s eyes as he analyses how transparently excited Alex is, made tearful by unidentifiable causes, as he walks quickly to the lounge (once for smokers) in the gents’.  Leonid, the danseur, has taken in his reappearance as well and seems to consider following him with more than a gaze.  Mycroft has registered every microsecond of that, as well, though he appears to be chatting attentively with an ambassador.   _Gotcha_ , thinks Sherlock, and rubs his hands again.  

(A guard will report shortly that the artist has seated himself in the lounge, alone.  He has returned a call to a woman named Sophie in Scotland who has a birthday and whom he’d sent a bouquet and whose sister remains dangerously ill; he indicates nothing about his whereabouts, feelings, or plans.) 

“Alexander.  A word, before you go,” Mycroft tells Alex, intercepting him as he crosses the room again, and taking a closer look at his tells.

Alex stops and turns.  “Of course.”

“It’s only fair to inform you,” the elder Holmes declares, “that a number of the guests you sketched expressed their dissatisfaction.”

“Did they, then.” Alex sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose.  “That’s unfortunate.”

Mycroft lets Alex suffer for a moment more before adding, “You see, they didn’t want to give them over.  And complained loudly about not being able to keep them.”

_“Really?”_

“Really.”

“Mycroft. You _scared_ me, there, you know.  _Horrid_ ,” Alex laughs weakly and sighs.

“Oh?  You nearly turned aristocracy against orphans.  Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”  Alex smiles and wipes at the corner of his eye.  Mycroft determines by way of this brief litmus test that the earlier tears had been _joyful_.  For sure.  “Ah, did you finally get the news you were waiting for?” the artist asks.

“I’m afraid so.  You also received news.”

“I did.  You know, your brother was looking for you.”

Mycroft darkens instantly.  “Are you _sure?_ ”

“I should say so.”

“ _Where_.” 

Alex lowers his voice.  “He was in the cloakroom, just over there.”

Mycroft makes a small gesture and a guard appears at his side.  He whispers several disconnected words.  The man scurries.

“If someone _exploited_ that,” Alex whispers.  “Aren’t you glad he tested the security?”

_“Alexander.”_

“ _Thank_ him for that,” Alex hisses.  “Imagine, when they’re hosting such talented guests from Russia.  The consequences of that being -- oh, _here_ he is.”

Sherlock saunters into the exchange.  “Blood.”

“Sherlock.”

Neither man wants to see the other, for ages, preferably.  And Mycroft is in a _spot_.  They both know it.  Sherlock eyes his brother with a shit-eating grin tugging at his cheeks.  “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Valid point,” the elder Holmes retorts. 

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, sniffing.

Mycroft is truly marble-like as he replies, “Well played.  And well done.”  The unpractised civility in the latter bit grates at them both.  They want throats -- and carnage -- but they cannot do anything more, given their audience, who is gazing at them with the warmth of twin suns in his eyes, impressed that Sherlock has been so madly clever, and pleased that Mycroft ( _can act as though he_ ) has benefited from it. 

Sherlock adjusts the degree of smugness in his smile.

“Who?” Mycroft asks.

“Oscar and Miles,” Sherlock replies. 

“Yes.  Already detained.  Fine,” Mycroft nods.  “How?”

“I came in as a cleaner with a box of spare clothes hangers, dusted the fellow in the cloakroom.  He’s sleeping in a utility closet, he’ll be fine.  And, oh.  Alex is armed.”  Sherlock turns to Alex.  “Show him.  I always _knew_ you had it in you.”

The artist giggles helplessly, patting himself and pulling a slim switchblade from his trousers.  “That will teach me to hug a Holmes, you’ve left me in a state.”

Sherlock snorts a bit too loudly.  _That was gorgeous_.  “It even has your fingerprints on it, now, for shame, what would forensics say?  Not that they'd have a clue what to look for.”

Mycroft glares a _grow up_ his way. 

“Well.  I was just leaving,” Alex says, and bows.  “Gentlemen.”

“You’re visibly tired,” Sherlock says to him.  “Overworked?”

“No, no.  Your brother has seen to everything, of course,” Alex replies, and turns his head toward Mycroft.  He smiles and discreetly _winks_. 

Mycroft shudders internally and dockets the first time anyone has winked kindly his way since the Major administration. 

Sherlock studies his brother carefully and finally shrugs.   _Never one for compliments._

“Sherlock, are you staying on or going home?  We could share the car,” Alex says.

“Mm,” Sherlock grunts and elects to _leave_.  He’s bored.

Sherlock's best man will be far too wound up to sleep right away, that much is obvious.  Nobody knows where Mycroft has disappeared to but he is most likely drowning the fact the party had gone swimmingly with a bottle of very good Porto.  Very boringly.  But at home -- John will be waiting in bed, warm and impatient, when Sherlock gets home and pounces on him. 

( _Marrying you, you gorgeous thing -- suck me -- oh God, yes -- love you -- so much -- so -- much --_ )


	38. Planned, unplanned

_Alex as best man.  SH_

_OK_

_Consider Giles or Linda.  SH_

_Thinking about it._

_How is your stomach, my love?_

_OK  SH_

_Miss you_

_Come home.  SH_

_Very tempted._

_Statutory ceremony.  Austere?  SH_

_Where are they?_

_Register office, Westminster, witnesses only.  SH_

_Witnesses only OK but no R.O._

_No guests.  OK.  SH_

_List online with 140+ locations.  SH_

_Not between patients, beautiful phoenix :)_

_Will prepare preliminary list.  SH_

_OK beautiful_

_You were amazing this morning._

_Need ... :)_

_News.  Lunch at 12:00?  SH_

_Yes please_

***

The receptionist knocks on John’s door.  “Doctor Watson, your -- _fiancé_ \-- is that -- ?"

“Thank you,” John answers, as Sherlock passes her and enters the office.

John closes the door and smiles.  “Hey.  So what’s --“

A wet kiss is crushed on John’s mouth and another on his chin.  “No short list,” Sherlock says.

“No?”

“An annex of the _Glen Burns_ is among the locations.”

“Great,” John says.  “Let’s do it.  Will they hang your drawing of the officers for us?”

“Well.”  Sherlock smiles wryly.  “Lawrence will arrange things.  Considering the inevitable interest of the press it would be a good choice of location.  Private, easily made inaccessible to strangers.”

“Sure.  Good.”

“The registrar is unavailable on the 17th day after our planned notice date.”

“Make it on the twenty-ninth?”

“Mm.”

“Let’s have something made for you,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s arse and pulling him closer.

“Another shirt.”

“For  the --“

“Not for that.  For the years to follow.”

“Nothing else?  Sure?  All right.  Dark oxblood red this time.  I want you in red sometimes.”

“Mm.  Our shoes arrived this morning by courier from Vilnius.”

“Turn out?”

“Very well.  Yours particularly.  And where, afterward?  No flying.”

“Norfolk for a couple days.”

“Excellent.”

“Look, sorry, beautiful, I need to eat this.  You know, I’m not packed for Passau.”

“You are, in fact.” Sherlock’s hands are creeping over John’s lower back.

“Wh -- hmm.  Thanks.  Uhm.  You know, I don’t want to stop.”

“Don’t stop, John.”

“I want you ready when I come home.  Blue dressing gown,” John says into Sherlock’s ear, “And.  Ready for me.  Understand?”

Sherlock chuckles darkly.  “Doctor.”

“Oi, no, no.” John smiles and shakes his head.  “This place doesn’t do it for me.  Let me eat.”

“Mmm.”

John has taken the afternoon off and looks forward to surprising Sherlock.  First, however, he has two errands.  When one place he’d planned to have his hair trimmed at is closed for remodeling he goes straight to see Mycroft at the _Diogenes,_ unannounced. 

He looks like a man about to be sentenced, on the one hand.  On the other, his eyes are dark and sparkling.  He doesn’t look entirely in his right mind, in any event, and Mycroft is on his guard in spite of himself.  John stands, rod-straight and serious, across the desk top from where the elder Holmes is shuffling files; ironically enough, the one closest to his hip pertains to Sergeant James Kerwin Barrows.   

“Sherlock and I registered a marriage yesterday morning,” John begins, looking down at Mycroft.

“Naturally, I am aware,” Mycroft replies.

“Sherlock asked his friend Alex to be his best man.”

Perhaps out of habit, Mycroft sighs and shrugs slightly, as if he’d already known that for a fact.  _At the Equinox Party.  Of course._   Secretly, he is annoyed that he had not connected things faster -- for _why else_ would John have appeared in his office?  “Yes.  And?”

“I wanted to inform you of the fact,” John tells him.  “And.  It looks like we won’t have anyone there except witnesses.”

“Very well.”

 _Sherlock is going to strangle me in my sleep.  I’m in for it.  Yup._ John raises his chin up cockily.  “So, I’ve come to ask if you’ll appear as _my_ witness.”

Mycroft blinks, and replies, “Thank you, I shall.”

“Thank you.  We’ll be in touch.”  John spins around on his heel and marches out of the room. 

_Watch us.  We’re doing this._

***

Alex has dropped by Baker Street on his way to see Mycroft, at Sherlock’s request, to listen to him present a draft of his presentation for Passau.  His building is being drilled into from the outside in preparation for a resurfacing and the deafening whine makes his teeth ache, so even listening to descriptions of shattered craniums, brain tissue spatter and calculations of ricochet speeds and data triangulations of some sort or another are preferable.  He has also let Sherlock trace his stockinged feet (“Forty-two and a half, continental, long arches, your moccasins were forty-threes with excessive ball to heel wear on the inner halves of the soles...”) so he can order some brogues similar to John’s, but wing-tipped, in green -- “I know, I know, it’s silly, but I want shoes the colour of a vintage MG, with burgundy stitching, to match my caramel and green tweeds,” he breathes nostalgically and Sherlock rolls his eyes.  Inevitably the men discuss the wedding and the choice of the _Glen Burns_.  “Mid-morning ceremony, then.  As I said.  What shall I even wear?”

“Caught off guard, forced to choose from among one’s rags, poor chap.  Entirely like me and John.  It hardly matters.”

“It matters!  It’s going to be so wonderful.”

“Calmly, please.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t expect me to sit like a stone and frown away.”

“No, that would be my brother’s role.”

“In fact he’s quite funny.”

“That’s my point.”

“Please don’t, it’s beneath you.  So, who is John’s witness?”

Sherlock shrugs.  “Most likely the nurse friend, or another colleague.”

Alex hums.  “No danger of a mad mid-afternoon snog between witnesses, there.”

“Excuse me?  Nnnno.  The chances are less than zero, clearly,” Sherlock snorts.

As if on cue (not to say by coincidence) Sherlock feels an incoming text and pulls out his phone.

_Mycroft agreed to be my best man.  Love you, beautiful phoenix._

“What is it, Sherlock?  Is everything --“

 _“Nnnngh!”_ Sherlock holds his phone up, eyes flashing.

Alex reads John’s text.  “Ah -- ha ha ha!  Ah - ah- ha!  Ah!  Oh, Lord!  _Not the nurse,_ then!  Ha!”

“A -- _virus_.”

“Phoenix.  That’s so nice.  And I’ve hardly ever seen you _in error_ , but don’t worry, it’s becoming when you blush.”

“The real error is _here_.” Sherlock shakes his phone as if he’s about to smash it against the nearest wooden corner.

Alex tries to defuse things.  “Sherlock, seriously.  It’s _John’s_ choice, and it’s your own _brother_.  Who better to be there than Mycroft?”

“Listen to yourself!  You've no idea!  Only _you_ could defend them both.  Disgusting.  What!  It’s not _funny, shut up_.”

“In fact, _you_ should defend them both, first, dear.” 

“Nnnno.”

Alex titters again.  “Two erroneous assessments in one day!”

“Which?  No --”

“Ah, Sherlock, ye of little faith.”

 _“_ Alex.”

“What.”

“Haven’t you got it through your head yet?  _He would never want you_.”

“Sherlock.  I -- I was --” 

“Disappointed?  You shouldn’t be.  It’s no deficit of yours.”

“ _I was joking!_    Only joking.” Alex returns.  “Really.  Wh --”

Sherlock glares.  “Because when you bother with anyone, you fancy intelligent, experienced, pedantic men, preferably older, who pay little heed to you -- so what else could you possibly want from him, if not _that_.  Find someone who at least notices when you’re in the room, it’s far more satisfying --” 

“Sherlock.  I --”

“He is the least companionable man you’ll ever have the hardship of being around.”

Alex sniffs a helpless laugh.  “Well, at the moment, you seem determined to take a bit of that title for yourself.”

Sherlock swallows, confused at his own impulse to throw something against the nearest wall.  “And you’re determined to _fly into the sun!_ ” he growls.

Alex’s face falls.  “Is that what you think?  Of me?”

“I’ve eliminated all other explanations.”

“And what if I were to fly into the sun?  Mm?  And _emerged unchanged?_ ”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.  “Alex.”

“Moreover.  I don’t need to explain myself,” Alex rubs his nose and the corners of his eyes.  “To him, you see.  He literally reads my mind and he knows all my defects, certainly.  Medical ones as well.  ‘Half a man, _can still draw_ , however’.”

“Did he say that to you?”

“Of course not.  I’m saying it about myself.  Look.  Don’t mention any of this to John.  My heart pills are wrecking my life more now than ever, _if you must know_.  So.  No, I’m not going to run off and shag your brother for a laugh after your wedding.  I swear.”

Sherlock gulps.  He feels like an incomprehensive arsehole.  It is difficult to look at Alex, now.  “A third error.  I didn’t imagine.”

“Who would care to.  You might control your tongue, though, you could hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Yours.  As I do too often.”  Sherlock sighs and bites his lips.  “My brother, however, doesn’t count.”

“Fourth error.  Worst yet.  Sorry, dear.  This is making me ill.  Can we not carry on like this?  Please?”

“Mmm.”

“Really.  If I ever need you to intervene, for any reason, I’ll tell you straight away, all right?  Can we do it that way?  Let it go?  It’s really fine.  I don’t --”

“Mhm.”  Sherlock has another text.

                _Ready for me? :)_

Sherlock's eyes widen.  Of _course.  Free afternoon.  Stupid!_   “Change of plans.  Alex --”

“Yeah?”

The front door slams downstairs.

“Well.  Toilet and leave through the kitchen?” Sherlock smiles.  "Quickly."

“Oh, Lord,” Alex whispers and snickers as he quickly strides away on his toes down the hallway. 

Sherlock has grabbed his violin from the table and is adjusting a string, plucking at it as unenthusiastically as he can pretend to so suddenly.  “Hmm, you gorgeous creature, come here,” John says from the doorway and crosses over to him at the window straight away.  “Jesus, need you, come,” he hums, taking a generous handful of Sherlock’s arse and flexing his fingers into it.  

(John does seem to have overlooked Alex’s coat downstairs.  _Or has he?_   Sherlock shivers.)

“Mm, my brother -- ?” Sherlock asks, trying to slow the progress of his soldier’s other hand to his zipper.

“Yeah.  God, you’re -- so bloody hot -- come, love, took the afternoon off, for us -- hmm?“

“As...best -- mmm -- man -- ?“  Sherlock’s neck flushes as he sees a flash of movement; Alex slips past the kitchen chairs, out the door to the stairwell.

“Yup.  Taking these off.  Sofa,” John growls and starts stroking Sherlock through his pants and kissing his neck.  “Thinking about this since you left my office.  Coming home and dragging you over there for a fuck.  Hmm?  Let me taste you --”

Sherlock presses his lips over John’s and counts the seconds it would take a self-conscious artist to descend seventeen steps.  John is breathing so heavily near his ear that he cannot discern the sound of a door hinge downstairs.  Therefore Sherlock lets himself imagine his friend, on the landing just below, listening to John taking down his pants, lolling his tongue and lips over his length, praising him for being so hard, promising lewdly to ride him even harder, eagerly rubbing lube (still in the skull) onto his thick, leaking cock and pushing in for a noisy, feral several minutes of ear-biting and grunting, John holding Sherlock’s hip still.  They switch and John rides his lap, letting Sherlock pant loudly against his nape and plunge up into him from behind as he claws into his chest with his long fingers and mumbles crazed, depraved things about John’s warm insides.  John comments on the ferocity of Sherlock’s orgasm.  He wants to see one in a mirror, soon, he says.  Sherlock very wisely keeps a certain unexpected fantasy to himself.  (Alex, as it happens, had heard plenty at the start and had even found John’s _bad officer_ voice affecting him -- but had _not_ lingered on the stairs for a second.  Later on, a sheepish but sated Sherlock receives a text: 

                _OMG!!!:)))))_

And he wonders how much he’d heard, at least fleetingly, before he decides he doesn’t really care.  _We’re engaged, after all.)_

***

After the Equinox evening Alex and Mycroft have spent more time together in Mycroft’s office, where Alex is working on a new frieze of seven sketches which will be inked in and watercoloured -- an idea that had occurred to him after listening to his _colleague_ describe absurdities during negotiations over a climate package.  The man, he discovers, attends between seventeen and twenty-six meetings per week, with the greatest discord among international participants appearing wherever natural resources are in question; in a bored voice Mycroft traces conflicts of interest among regions of Europe due to post-war border changes and links them to trade and incorporation from the times of the industrial revolution to the present as if it were painfully obvious, while drafting lists of products and raw materials which are most likely to be embargoed by whomever and estimated deficit ratios for eight EU countries.  Alex listens and tries not to think about what he had seen earlier on of John’s _passion_ , which the man keeps so carefully under wraps, hardly talking or smiling at anyone else.  It has impressed him.  He is happy for Sherlock but a bit more troubled than usual about himself.  

“Spring has sprung,” Mycroft remarks, flipping through a file and then shoving it aside.  “Oh...bother....”

Alex has been rubbing his lips with his fingertips and lets his hand drop.  “ _Oh bother, the flowers that bloom in the spring_ ,” Alex mumbles, half-singing.  “Your childhood _secret_ , tra la _la_ la la.”

“Bugger,” Mycroft mutters to himself.  “And yet you’re still here.  Now which of us is really worse.”

“Perhaps I thought for a time I could save you,” Alex says, and sighs, erasing a fragment of his drawing.  “Ech.  Now I’ve done it.”

“Your voice is tolerable, at least.”

“Your compliment is ambiguous, at best.”

The exchange earns them both a long spot of silence.

“Well, then,” Mycroft finally says, gathering a pile of papers and pocketing a beautiful gilded pen.  “There’s a meeting in half an hour at MOD, defence diplomacy.  Aircraft visits, a foolhardy emergency reduction in training exercises in the coming year, a profound lack of non-proliferation activities, guaranteed vapidity from six players.  Must be _Wednesday_.  You might come along and see who organises bilateral outreach, appalling.”

“Well.  I’m afraid that’s not my world.” Alex stands.

“Your world has a 100 decibel drill in it for now.  Pass me my umbrella.  By that chair.  Alexander -- _don’t_ \--”

“Ah, it has -- “  Alex unwisely fiddles with one of two protrusions above the handle.  “Oh.  Oh, sorry, now I’ve gone and broken it, I’m so -- oh!”  He grimaces at a glint of a blade that has popped up from the parasol-frame.  “Clever. Have -- you used it?” He pulls it out further and cuts himself slightly on it.  “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, yes.” Mycroft wants to be angry at him but cannot.

Alex frowns and hands the umbrella over carefully, with the loosened handle.  “Where did you get it?  It looks older.”

“An heirloom.  Like your dear Uncle’s wristwatch, best left unopened.  Coming?”

“Certainly not, you’re armed.”  Alex flushes as he sucks at his finger. 

 _Adrenaline by proxy?_ Mycroft looks at him with a flash in his eyes that reminds Alex of Sherlock instantly.   He pulls a magnetic card with Alex’s photograph on it from his jacket pocket. He holds it up and remarks, “A little-employed equivalent of Developed Vetting status, for non-officers.  I suppose I’ll give it back, then?”

To that, Alex’s eyes sparkle with excitement, bordering on arousal.  “No, no.  Well. This once, but.  That photo.  You’re _mad_.“

Mycroft would prefer mad to lonely; to his dismay it has recently come to that. 

Blame the Equinox.  Or the mission in Vienna, for that matter.  “This is secret,” he says, once they’re in his car.  “The presence of an observer will affect three members of the committee, I can’t say more.  We won’t talk.  Observe.  _And behave_.”

***

“What do you think.”  Sherlock presents John his Lithuanian shoes once they are able to function and move about the flat again.

“Wow.  Soft.  These are handmade, aren’t they.  Really nice.  Thank you, love.”

“You wanted the graphite grey.”

“Actually, I did.  But, good choice.  Nice.  They’re different.”

“I've ordered a second pair.  In grey.  They’ll come with a delay of another two weeks or so.”

“Serious?”  John grins.

“I think of Vilnius.  Particularly now.”  Sherlock looks meaningfully at John, who he does not want to mention Rainer’s name in connection with the incident in Vilnius.  He winces to himself at his mistake.

“Yeah, so do I.  Uhm.  I think -- uhm, you were trying -- I think you were sort of trying to tell me, then.  There.  About marriage.”

“Well.  I considered it.  The circumstances were anything but encouraging.”

“Heard from Roman?”

“No, not yet.  John?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not taking our phones to Passau.”


	39. Presentation, affirmation

It is almost eight in the morning and the friends are getting ready to leave for the airport to catch a noon-ish flight to Munich.  John is trying not to grab Sherlock and move him aside as he interrupts his soldier’s attempt to take stock of their bags and personal items.

“You were _supposed_ to have chosen -- not -- _him_ ,” Sherlock says, blowing apart John's current mental list process and brushing at his teeth with aggression that only amuses John.

“Love -- stop this."

The subsequent spitting in the sink sounds spiteful, as well.  “ _An error_.  I’ll inform him.”

“Won’t change anything.”

“You don’t see?  John.  He.  Is.  _The reason I didn’t want guests!_ ”

 _“What?_ Come on.”

_“Nnngh!”_

“Hey.  Bloody ridiculous.  Know why I asked him?  A couple things.  First.  Number one.  We don’t have a lot of close family, do we.  And someone should be there.  From yours, if not mine?  We’re down to them, okay?”

“Ah.  You’ve spoken to Harry.”

“Yeah, actually, yeah.  Did.  I think it went, ’already heard from the papers, so fucking what, sod you, look where I am and you never even help out, just go back to hell’.  She’s at a facility, forced treatment, caught drunk on a bike on the motorway, damn it.  Uhm.  So, listen.  Number two?  He is a _bloody_ bastard, I want to smash his skull in for how he’s hurt you.  Listen, I’m not through, here.  Listen.  But we’re _together_ , you’re _here_ , at home.  And we’re getting married, right?  He wanted to help out in his own way.  You _knew_ that.  See, I _didn’t_.  All this time, I thought he was trying to split us up.  Like, _actively_ trying to.  Even with this Vilnius.  He wasn’t, though, was he.  Hmm?” John asks.

“At first, he wouldn’t have minded seeing you leave me, in the _least_ ,” Sherlock retorts.

“Yeah.  Probably still wouldn’t,” John comments. 

Sherlock shakes his head at that.  “He believed you weren’t planning to stay on and wanted to shorten the process, not the first time he’s done so.  Point it out and be the first to prove himself right --”

“So what.  You’re mine.” 

Sherlock almost smiles.  “He accepts this, but the _conditions_ \--”

“Yeah.  But he _accepted_ it.  That’s a lot.  Remember the deal you just refused?”

There is a silence as Sherlock begins to wind himself up again.

 _“Hell!  The last person on earth I want there, John!”_ he groans.

“Look.  We’re not going back to that.  No.  Just.  He can be there.  Right?  He can.  Even though I want to punch him every time I see him.  It’s not perfect at all, okay?  But it’s our lives.  That’s who we’ve got.  Sherlock.  That’s _how things are_.  ‘Kay?  Listen, stop this.  He’s _going to be there_.  This is about our history, and our -- you know.  All of it.  Us.  There wouldn’t be any of this, here, without _that_ smug-faced arsehole.  It’s true.”

Weddings, like child-rearing or house-building are believed to bring forth the most violent preferences in even the most reasonable of people.  So to say that Sherlock is fixating too much nervous energy on John’s choice -- _well, it is a bit not good_.  He is on the edge of a legitimate tantrum. 

_“John, change it!”_

John nearly reminds his love that _he’d_ gone and chosen his charming _art teacher_ , a decision which has gone uncontested, so far, though it is not a neutral one, to him.  But he quickly decides not to add oil to the blaze which is an offended phoenix and to calm him before he makes matchsticks of an innocent living room chair.  Not long before boarding an airplane, as well.

“Look.  Don’t.  Hey.  Give me a kiss, don’t even look at me like that.  It’s going to be bloody fantastic.  Remember, it’s you and me.  Who cares.  Come on, we’ve got a flight.  Wrist bands?”

“Pocket!”

“Pen drive?”

“Other pocket.  No phone, John.”

***

“Hee hee!” Rainer is very excited to see Sherlock and John both in Passau and takes John aside.  “You know.  I have with me brought the pistols.  We will shoot.  So.  Did Sherlock show you my answer for the mother-in-law problems?  Hee hee!”

“Uh --“ John stutters (he has just understood why Sherlock doesn’t want to have a phone on his person).  “Yeah, he told me about it.  Clever!  Good idea, mother-in-law gun.  Patent that one.”

“Oh, no.  That is just the hobby gun, you know.  The fun gun.  I don’t know if it really works inside or no,” replies the Austrian merrily and puts his hands on his hips.  (John goes a shade green.  Sherlock glances away from them both and studies a nearby wall.)  “So!  We will now take time to have something good to eat!  A small German restaurant!  _Schmackhaft!_   You want the very good soups?”

“Soup is -- good.  So.  Ready for your presentation?” John asks.

“Ach, yes.  That.  But, John.  Do you come here for the presentations?  Do we?  No!  We come together here to shoot!  There is the very good place here near the forest.  And we will play Air Soft, too when it does not rain.”

“Sure.”

“This will be the _perfect_ usage for all your kill shots, John.  Hee hee!” Rainer rubs his hands together.

“Mhm,” Sherlock agrees, though he seems to be excited about something else, “and where else will you see such a high concentration of experts on hiding crimes?”

“Heh.” John smiles up at him.

***

“The large angle of yaw to tumble in FMJ bullets leads to the presenting profile of this size -- here -- on impact, obviously.  Mmmm.  Yes.  Fragmentation into core and jacket due to increasing mechanical force may occur, and fascinatingly, the break may happen either without _or_ within the victim’s body.  Here, a cupronickel  coated lead bullet created an atypical entrance wound due to ricochet, note the marking on the wall.  Observe diagram A.  Now. Superimposing the following algorithm...”

John is seated in the second row, off to Sherlock’s right.  He has rarely been so proud of another human being in his life, aside from himself, for having snagged such a gorgeous, damned brilliant fiancé.  Sherlock has been a sensation at the conference so far.  His seemingly-haphazard studies of ballistics (which are anything but) and encyclopedic knowledge of crime forensics past make him a formidable audience member.  _“Distant ischemia as a result of bullet embolism!”_ he’d blurted from his seat the afternoon before, effectively wrecking the surprise reveal of an atypical cause of death during a Swiss keynote speaker’s autopsy lecture.  John is grateful to be a spectator and partner this time round, not a conference participant under that laser-sharp scrutiny.  The truth is, John also has a lot to say during Q-A sessions and coffee breaks, and finds himself in some fascinating debates about causes of death over biscuits and finger sandwiches with people from all around Europe, though mostly Germans.  He hadn’t expected anyone to know who he is, but several people have come up to talk about medical aspects of cases he’s written about.  He is chuffed.  It’s nothing like the conferences he usually attends, to better understand the living; here, it’s bodies and butchery, mostly, with countless variations.

“...A skull bone with beveling, resulting from the atypical entrance wound.  Circumferential fracturing radiates _outward_ from the entrance point.  _Conically_.  Mm.  Now.  Consider the following calculation of velocity, which allows for accurate pinpointing of distance between the suspect and victim....” Sherlock continues.

Sherlock’s densely woven and well-timed presentation has gone brilliantly, John thinks.  There are no substantive questions (the only challenge coming from an audience member who, as Sherlock points out within three seconds, had neglected to add one decimal point during his calculation on his smartphone screen).  He glances smugly at John, who  is grinning back at him promisingly, and who squeezes his hand warmly when he comes to take a chair at his side.  “Jesus, that was amazing,” John whispers.  “You need rewarding for that.  I mean, seriously.  I’m going to -- hmm.”

“Counting on it.” Sherlock sighs to himself and fans his pale neck a bit with cards containing his outline, which until that moment have had no function -- he’d managed to do the entire presentation from memory.  If he had a phone on him, he’d text Alex that he is still among the living and possibly thank him for the three tedious dry runs of the presentation they’d done in the living room at Baker Street.  _Share, don’t glare._ Useful advice, all things said and done.  Sherlock doesn’t tolerate the chatter in between sessions and spends it smoking illegally out a window he’s found in a nearby corridor, but once he overhears a small group discussing a paper he’d written (ethics and virtual autopsy) under a pseudonym, and casually joins in, arguing that the author is obviously a misguided amateur who has never performed an autopsy, and enjoying their defences of the writer’s obvious expertise as an experienced pathologist with exceptional people skills.  It’s amusing.

John and Sherlock don’t analyse issues like ‘self-esteem’ or ‘sense of professional worth’ in as many words, but when they have finally collapsed into their standard-issue economy Continental hotel room, Sherlock is excited (using his vast store of little-employed knowledge).  John’s praise about his work feels just as magical as it ever did.  As for whether he misses hectic work with the police, John is not foolish enough to break the spell by asking.

He’s sitting on the bed while Sherlock has a satisfying, hot shower despite the cramped tube-shaped glass enclosure that John immediately compares to a cryogenic storage module.  On his way in for his own wash, John decides to dress Sherlock for bed first so he can better undress him later on, but Sherlock shakes his head.  He stretches out on the bed in a light silky dressing gown.  “John,” he purrs from where he has draped himself along their pile of industrial grade pillows, “I have a story.”

“Oh, yeah?” John asks, and quits unbuttoning his shirt.

“This one concerns a valet.”

“Yeah?  How does it start?”

“Well.  You see, a _valet de chambre_ works for a lonely retired army officer.  That much we’ve already established.”

“Yeah.”

“Except that he isn’t the humble valet the officer believes him to be. He has been taken on to keep the man’s company and assist him, in the role of butler and manservant, granted.  And obviously, ambition makes any servant potentially dangerous to the order of a household.  But there is something else the valet wants.  So when he is alone, because his job affords him spare time to indulge in what he _would_ do, as well as what he ought to, the valet plans.  The irony of this manservant’s place is always that his potential is rarely considered.  He is called to assist, and he assists, but he always knows precisely how he might do more.  Thus the stereotypes.  This one wants to pleasure _his_ officer -- a tired man, who has seen far too much in life, and wears the signs of battle on his skin and in his mind.  His very attractive body is tense and  ready to burst from nervous potential.  He needs release, thinks the valet, from an expert hand.  He can’t give it to himself, of course not.  He is too familiar with himself, too efficient and practical to indulge.  He needs to be reminded that his body is not a dry husk for a so-called soul in need of periodic maintenance, but a teeming matrix of receptors, pulsing live wiring.  Perhaps he has forgotten, in all of his experience, what those nerves are for?  Not to receive messages of damage, danger and pain, but to register temperature and force and friction -- from touch?”

“Yeah -- ah --” John looks down at Sherlock’s deft fingertips, which are flicking open all his shirt buttons.

“The valet offers to undress the officer.  He refuses.  But the valet _will_ persist.  Not that day, no.  But another.  Until the officer relents.  And the valet undresses his very _erotic_ body for him.  May I?”

John laughs helplessly while Sherlock reaches over and peels off all his clothes for him.

“And.  Since the officer -- oh.  The officer -- John --“

“All for you.  Want to?”

“Y - es.  I don’t.  Well.  I don’t tell very good stories.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.  Ah -- love, yeah.  Hmmm, like -- suck me.  Ah -- yeah -- hmm, you -- amazing -- hmm -- nnnnnnn -- fast, ah --“ 


	40. Deja Vu

John is in fatigues, boots, a helmet, and goggles.  He has a neck kerchief and an arm band marking him as a member of a mil-sim team mostly comprised of Germans and Austrians, and is holding an assault-type AEG that fires plastic BB pellets.  John will be hunting members of a team very similarly dressed, for his first experience with replicated combat in forest conditions.  He is in the same group as Rainer and when they check each other over, the cheery Austrian remarks that he looks far less the part of soldier than John, who already seems several inches taller and a number of years younger.  He is so excited that his nerves are buzzing in his knees.  He hadn’t expected the simple act of putting on a uniform again to affect him.  But it has.  A lot.

He has just received his first briefing on the game rules of Airsoft, which are, not surprisingly, very strict.  They have safe words, procedures for simulated and real injuries, removal words, penalties for infractions and arbitration for disputes.  The shots have to be fired from a distance of at least fifteen feet, given the rifles the men (and two Austrian ladies) are using; the weapons have been chronographed in case any are more powerful than the rules allow.  Anyone who has been hit indentifies, and steps out of the game to a special holding area to wait fifteen minutes before ‘re-spawning’ back to life again.  The object of today’s game is elimination (with a maximum of three ‘re-spawns’, meaning slaughter once those ‘lives’ have been used up by a team) and capturing the opposite side’s coloured flag, which is heavily protected.  They have a xerox-copied map of their enclosed area and suddenly a team of fourteen seem all at once to look to John for tactics.  John is the only person on his team who has actually participated in combat, though there are two police inspectors, and Rainer and another man, Albert, who have been abroad to observe war as civilian experts.  John finds himself spouting some ideas without even thinking it through, much:  “We’ll start from behind the trees, not in these trenches.  Why?  If we’re all in the trenches, it’s easier to take us all by surprise at once.  Less cover, but better spread out.”  Rainer translates his remarks into German for extra clarification.  “If our defence were all right here, our defended perimeter would be less than thirty feet.  We will have perimeter guards behind trees and circle in from the sides.  If the enemy -- the other team -- is concentrated in the middle of the playing area, we can surround them.  When assaulting there will be a small unit hidden at all times in the back flank which can fan out to the sides, or, if needed, fight an attack from behind.  Stay behind the trees and wait, whenever possible. Make them come. Two scouts will move ahead to look for the flag, with me.  Do not fire as soon as you see enemies, wait until you can hit the group with one burst.  I see Albert is willing to come with me.  Anyone else?”

John’s team wins, hands down.  John and Albert capture the flag first, John is shot when bringing back the flag and gets a “medic” to the waiting area.  Having to raise his rifle over his head through some very real feelings of discomfort and shouting “Hit!” is bizarre but he gets through his mixed emotions quickly.  When he finishes the game and Sherlock comes down from an observation tower to congratulate him (his eyes go dark and distant once they are closer to each other), he is riding a swell of adrenaline that he hasn’t felt in years.  Sherlock can’t resist stealing a kiss with him behind a tree and rubs his cock against John’s hip.

“Heh, down, beautiful,” John giggles.

“No.”

“Yeah?”

 _“Tower.”_  

That purring means _danger_.  It’s gorgeous.  “No, love.  Can’t.  We can’t, here.”

“Mmm, John, tow - er.”

John would.  He really would.  But he needs to give back the clothes, he explains.  He does have to, like in five minutes. 

“You’ve never shown me.  Yourself, like that.”

“Like it?”

“Mhm.  Very much.”

John licks his lips.  “Tell you what.  We go back, take the edge off...”

“Obviously.” Sherlock smiles wickedly.  “Ah, you meant -- you.”

When they have half-undressed each other John ruts, leaking and hot, against Sherlock’s thigh and comes before he can get much further.   

“Wh - at, gorgeous?” John asks, when he sees Sherlock turn his face away, smiling. _“You make me crazy,”_ John mumbles, and backs off down the bed a bit so he can swallow down Sherlock and tongue his way over his cock. 

 _Passau_.  The very name of the place now works on John like _Paris_ to some lovers.

***

After a late morning of shooting antique pistols with Rainer at a closed range under Sherlock’s dilated gaze ( _“Don’t lick my neck while I have a loaded pistol in my hand -- Jesus, there’s something you don’t have to say every day...sorry, Rainer, I don’t know what’s got into him this morning.”  “Hee hee hee!”_ ), they’d reluctantly parted ways with the Austrian, their stomachs filled with Knödel balls. They'd given him an open invitation to come up to England for a proper visit.  Sherlock had said ‘to our house’, rather than ‘flat’, which John had raised an eyebrow at -- with Sherlock, one never knows which cues to tune in to.  They had taken a shuttle bus across the border to Salzburg. 

John has seen more beautiful places in the last six months than in the past decade, and Salzburg is another fancifully lovely destination on the list.  A large fortress, placed on a hilltop, overlooks an atmospheric and colourful Old Town, filled with Baroque buildings and distinct, wrought-iron, gilded signage.   The picture-perfect streets and sights are lit up at night and the entire place looks like a touristic wonderland.  In snow, John thinks, it would resemble a gingerbread town, almost too sweet to look livable.  The hotel Sherlock has chosen for them is only a few buildings from Mozart’s birthplace and their room has a view of the castle, when one leans aside at the right angle and looks upward.  It is sleek and polished on the one hand, all in dark oak wood with brown-blue wall treatments that look like matte, raw silk, but has a bit of palatial character to it on the other -- the posted bed is impressive, of ideal height (John habitually measures the height-to-groin of beds before even realising he’s doing it) and the overstuffed blue high-back chairs look like good destinations, too.  He won’t read a single page, from the looks of things, however.  Sherlock is milling around the room, twirling this way and that, full of energy.  John isn’t quite able to ask if Sherlock wants to be belted to one of those posts.  Sherlock catches him staring at one and flexing his fingers.  “ _No_ ,” he interjects and John’s ears flush pink.

The _Residenzsplatz_ is close and Sherlock takes John out for an evening walk to show him the fountain with leaping horses (as featured in one of his recurring dreams) but they find it covered in a plywood structure for wintering; it cannot be viewed.  A nearby sign shows a photograph of it on a sunny day.  “Too bad, love,” John remarks.  “Maybe you can get them to take that off for us?”

“I shall endeavour to,” Sherlock replies and smiles abstractedly up at the fortress.

They have a stroll and chat for an hour or so.

“Rainer’s a bloody good shot.  He really is, damned good.” John shivers a bit and admires a display of chocolates in a nearby window.

“Steady hand, high lung capacity.  His grandfather was a sniper during the war.”

“Oh.”

“Therefore, the fact that his ‘fun gun’ led to the death of a man, even one who had it coming, and who would gladly have shot us both...”

“I get it.  Yeah.”

“So.  Airsoft.  Mm.”

“Yeah.  That part, you know, of me.  It was like it finally got used.  Does that make sense?”

“Clearly, you no longer have occasion to accompany me in police work.”  Sherlock pulls his lips in a line and looks away, well on the way to offended, all too quickly.

“Not what I meant.”

“Well.”  Sherlock rubs his lips with his gloved knuckles.  “It’s true.  No outlet.”

“No.  Look.  That, see, that was fun.  With you.  Of course it was, love.  But mostly because of watching how _you_ work.  Even at the conference it’s been bloody amazing to watch you.”

“Mm.” Sherlock doesn’t look entirely convinced but wants to be.

“It’s been brilliant.”

“Mm.”

“This is about something else.  See, you come back to your civilian routine and you have all this skill.  It’s not even that you want to go back _there_ , and fight all over again, go on the patrols under fire again.  It’s that you wish you could still connect all that shit going on inside to what you do, at least sometimes.  You can’t turn it off or do anything with your potential, at all.  You get frustrated looking at people who don’t -- get it.  Who don’t need what you can do.  Maybe like you, in a way, because you see more than everyone around you, all the time.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“I don’t know if you were able to see much from where you were sitting but it was _fantastic_.  To use that again.  Have a sort of challenge and see it through, do it.  Shoot, sort of hunt, you know.”

“You’d go again.”

“I doubt they’ll ever have it in Regent’s Park.  Heh.  But yeah, sure.”

“Excellent.” 

“You...liked watching?”

“More than I’d imagined.”

“Like soldiers, a little?”

“Well.  Inasmuch as I’ve elected to marry one....”

“Oi!”

***

Irony being what it is, a cruel turn occurs the following day; admittedly, Sherlock is more easily upset on certain points than he might usually be, having planned the trip with quite different events in mind, namely a well-worded proposal and copious helpings of oral sex. 

He is openly annoyed when John interrupts a delicious morning lie-in by announcing his intent to go on a bus tour of a nearby palace with spitting fountains and another estate with a falconry show.  Sherlock refuses and tells him to go alone (he’s seen the place; it’s quite amusing to be attacked by a fountain or two while wandering about palatial gardens, but he doesn’t want to wreck the surprise, nor see it again).

“At reception they said there’s a bus every hour.  So I’ll meet you at one, by that fountain, and we’ll go for lunch, hmm?” John asks.

***

At ten before one, Sherlock heads for the fountain.  At one fifteen, he is puzzled.

By two, Sherlock is harbouring certain anxieties.  And cold.  _Hell._

By two-thirty, his gut aches.  _You wouldn’t._

Three approaches.  _Mycroft --_  

***

There is a wooden hut with tourist information six and a half yards from Sherlock’s left shoulder.  The door swings open and a young man in red-framed glasses and a gray cardigan, wearing a large lanyard and badge that says “Amadeus Was Here” approaches a dark-haired man in a gray overcoat who has been seated behind Sherlock for about fifteen minutes, smoking cigarettes ( _Slav, not Czech or Polish, not Ukrainian, the eyes_ ).

“Good afternoon.  Your friend will arrive.  Thank you,” the tourist info chap says. 

The man shakes his head and shrugs.  The representative returns quickly to the information booth, closes it for afternoon teatime, and hurries off.

Sherlock springs up, considers chasing the representative, but sees he has driven off; he approaches the dark-haired man instead.  “ _Auf Deutsch?”_

“Englisch?  I am Russia.”

“Russian.  Ah.  You are waiting --”

“Eh, ye -- I -- eh -- wait -- _no you!_ “

“No -- _nyet.  Eto soobshcheniye dlya vas_?” Sherlock attempts through his chattering teeth.

“ _Nnnn - nyet_ \--“ the Russian waves him away.

Sherlock puts up a hand and backs off.  He does not receive a cigarette, nor advice, which means the nightmare is _not_ occurring with as high a degree of accuracy as he’d imagined it might, for a moment.  He is deeply annoyed.

In several minutes, the Russian has been joined by a beautiful blonde girl in a blue fur coat and they walk off together in the direction of the Cathedral, laughing and kissing each other’s cheeks.

At exactly four-oh-seven, John leaps out of a van with flashing tail-lights which has entered a no-traffic zone; he goes round to shake the driver’s hand through the window, exchanges several words with the man and marches quickly in the direction of the fountain.

“So I’m damned late.  Uhm.  Hi.”

Sherlock glares.

“Uncovered it?  Look at that.  The horses.”

_(Huff.)_

“So you actually got them to -- take that off the fountain?”

“How _kind_ to assume my words have so much _sway_ in Salzburg.  Today is a holiday, apparently, and it was unveiled for _whatever_ ,” Sherlock snarls.

“Well, yeah.  Huh.  Palm Sunday, Easter’s in a week.”

Sherlock shrugs rudely.

“Love, _sorry_.”

_“Where!”_

“Basically I didn’t change my watch, you know, to spring time --”

 _“What?”_ Indeed, the announcement about the time change in the following night had been given in German, at the conference.  Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Look, I went on the tour, it leaves every hour, no problem.  And then when I got back to the bus stop I took the bus that left at the right time, according to my watch, but it turned out it was a bloody shuttle, and by the time we hit the Autobahn and I realised we were going all the way to bloody _Munich_ , I couldn’t get them to turn it around, people had flights.  So, I came back in it.  The guy didn’t even charge me for it, it was his last drive on his shift, so we stopped at this little place here in town with -- okay, look, this is for you.  Chocolate -- something local,” John explains.  Sherlock shoves his hands into his pockets and sniffs.  (Later, Sherlock will see that it is a baggie of large, hand-finished _Mozartkugeln_ and apologise with plenty of kisses.)  “I knew you were probably still sitting here, my love, I didn’t want you to wonder what was happening.”

“Yes.”

“Like.  That sort of nightmare of yours, sitting here, I felt like shit.”

“The essential difference is that _you have turned up_ ,” Sherlock replies, testily, afraid to admit even to himself that he’d been affected.

“Well, I wasn’t going to stay on in Munich.  I asked the driver to call the tourist info in Salzburg and try to get you a message.  He called someone here in the Old Town and they were supposed to come by and tell you, at the fountain.  Bollocks.  They didn’t?”

“They did.  Someone else with dark hair,” Sherlock explains, with a sigh.  “But that is why I am still here.  It wasn’t _his_ message.”

“Right.  Love, you’re shaking.”

_“Cold arse.”_

“Let’s go get something to eat.”

“When the best places, not closed for whatever holiday it is, are already closed for the _afternoon_.”

“Come, love.  Hotel?”

“Fortress.  It’s open another hour.”

“I know, I’m an idiot.  Take it easy.”  John takes Sherlock’s face in his burning warm hands and kisses him gently, in front of all the tourists milling around them, and grins.  “I love you so much.  Wild horses.  Understand?” 

He doesn’t understand the remarks made by a nearby mother of three; it is just as well.

***

They catch the last ride up to the fortress that afternoon.  Sherlock maneuvers John to one of the towers.

“Look out that way, toward the Alps.”

“Proper view.”

“In fact,” Sherlock tells John, “from this elevation I’d planned to ask you about marriage.”

“Still yes, just saying.”

Sherlock brushes a lock of hair off John’s brow and kisses his forehead.

“Good to be here,” John whispers, and pushes aside Sherlock’s scarf to put a kiss on his neck. 


	41. Of solemn and binding character

_Baker Street - 9:55 a.m._

John has a black and graphite grey silk tie in his hand.  He glances at his (and Sherlock's) reflection in the bevelled mirror over the mantelpiece and flips up his collar points.

Sherlock stands by, as he has for the last fifteen minutes or so, like an appointed functionary whose primary intent is docketing John's 'vestment process'.  Mercifully, he has been doing most of that work mentally.  “I’ll knot it,” he now says out of the blue, as though something has finally tipped the scales. 

John catches his determined stare in the mirror with one of his own.  “I can knot my own, I’m not that far gone.  Right.  Go on, then.”

“I’m not wearing one, however.”

“All right.  I want your neck fully visible.”

Sherlock smirks and the silk briefly flicks about like a struggling fish under John’s chin, until those long pale fingers push a finished knot up against John’s throat.  Sherlock gets a kiss on the chin for his efforts.

“Thanks.”  John pats at the knot.  “Hmm.  Couldn't find my comb anywhere, seen it?”

“I broke it last night.  It’s -- well.  Resisted repair.”

“Oh, come on.  Don’t we have another one anywhere?”

“We have a wooden salad fork which closely resembles a comb.”

“ _Wh - at?_ ”

“It does.  I used it earlier.”

John glances at Sherlock's acceptably controlled locks.  “Serious?”

"Quite."  Sherlock bursts out laughing.  John cannot help himself and giggles.

"All right, bring the barmy thing, let's see what I can scrape around here."

_10:01 a.m._

“Kind of hungry.  Want anything?”

“Nnnnope.”

“Some toast, maybe?”

“You cropped your hair close round your ears."

"Yeah."

"Not unlike the way you wore it when I first met you.  There, at Bart's,” Sherlock states.

“Sort of, yeah.  Wasn’t as grey.”

“Erotic....”

“You’re bloody erotic, stop talking.  Let’s eat something.”

“You look like yourself.”

“So do you.”

“Natural.”

“Bit Bohemian, you, suits you.  Hmm.  You’re not wearing pants, either, are you.”

“Mmmmm.  I need a smoke.”

“I need a...blowjob, or.  What.  Wh -- ah -- ah, love, yeah.  Oh, yeah.   _Jesus_ , do it -- _hmmm, goooood, so good_.  W - wait  -- wreck my trousers and I -- won’t -- leave -- need it faster than -- ahhh, yeah, fffff-uck -- hnnnnyeeah!”

_10:14_

“So my suit is no longer _fit_ to be seen.  Planned that, so I’d have to wear this one?”

“Two birds with one -- mm -- something.  We were both in grey. Ah. Good.”

“The grey one was -- these trousers are tighter -- _shit_ \-- in the crotch.”

“Yes.  Not those, the blue shoes.”

“Sure.  Why not the blue shoes.”

“I chose their colour expressly for _this_ suit.” 

“Yeah.  Know what?  You do know.  You know exactly what.”

“Your -- tie.  There.  J -- _oh_.   _Shouldn’t.  Pl -- ease -- okay -- nngh --"_

“Taking these off.  Yes.  Taking them off...your...gorgeous...arse -- hmmm, yeah, you _want_ this.”

“Mmmmmm, John -- J --  mmmm -- _hnn_ \--”

_10:23_

“Sooooo.  The car was ordered for ten thirty, then?”

“Y -- es --”

“Come, love.”

“Not attending.”

“You’re amazing when you come like that.  You know.  Yeeeeah.  Ready for all this?”

“Yes.  No.” 

“I’d take you upstairs right now for more of that if it didn’t mean missing _our wedding_.  Do you realise, we’re -- Jesus.”

“Yes.”

“Wait -- toothpaste, there, a little.  All right.  It’s all right.  Bags are ready, though, love?”

“Yes.”

“Go down and wait?”

“Mhm.”

“Oi.  Are you going to zip that up, or do I have to do it _for_ you?”

“For me....”

“Hey, now.  Later, we’re coming back to this.  We will, oh, we will.”

_Annex, The Glen Burns Gentlemen’s Club - 10:40_

Mycroft, a pillar of pinstripes, glances at the hastily-groomed grooms and turns away with a scandalised eye roll as Lawrence shows them in.  Alex follows them two minutes later, deliciously posh in a slim olive tweed with a broad chartreuse and caramel tie, which he has speared with a very old golden stick-pin of a swallow encircled in seed pearls and dark yellow stones, perhaps topaz.  Even John wouldn’t deny that the bloke can look damned nice, when he wants to.   At his side in the doorway, Lawrence is a centimetre from forfeiting his dearly-loved chair in the club’s Board as Alex turns carefully away from the older man’s 'appreciative' touch.  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” the artist says, as though _he_ had thrown his own arm in the way of the barrister’s creeping fingers.  John wrinkles his brow at what seems to be a well-practised reaction.  Sherlock frowns and notes, with no small interest, the vivisecting glare _brother dear_ has just directed toward his retreating colleague, Lawrence. 

With a sunny smile meant to imply obliviousness, Alex greets the grooms in turn.  “John, good morning, Sherlock, nice to see you.” 

“Good morning,” John says. 

"Yup." Sherlock smiles like a canary-eater.

Alex nods, eyes flashing, but not at either of them. “And good morning, Mycroft.”

“Alexander.”

John’s eyebrows fly ceiling-ward as Alex leans closer and murmurs something near Mycroft’s ear. 

“Life, the bitter rival,” Mycroft says, in response to Alex.  

“Surely not,” Alex replies.  “This very event is testament to the silliness of that statement.”

“Anagrams.  And it’s not even noon.”

 John jumps at a sudden, agitated breath, sucked in by Sherlock just next to him.  Sherlock grinds his teeth audibly.

“Love, don’t.” John bumps his arm. 

“Admit it, you’re delighted,” Alex says to the elder Holmes.  “You’ve forgotten your umbrella over it, haven’t you?  Not that you’d _need_ a foot-long bodkin today.”

Mycroft sighs.  “Hush.  I trust you are well?  Did you manage to get in some sleep?”

John snorts softly to himself.  _Bloody hell..._

“When you know I didn’t,” Alex remarks, and raises a brow.

“I didn’t either,” Mycroft admits and smiles thinly. 

“Didn’t know or didn’t sleep?”

“Choose for me.  I hardly know what I’m braying this morning,” Mycroft snickers.  _(Snickers!)_   “Remind me why we ordered that duck last night, at all?”

“Oh, Lord, poultry bouquet!” Alex bursts out laughing.  “We’d better stop there.”

“Instantly.”

“So.  Your waistcoat has come out well,” Alex says, trying to suppress his laughter by rubbing his lips.  “ _Poultry_ ,” he whispers to himself.   

“Carter’s handiwork, not Vince’s, and it’s actually Carter who prefers worsted vicuña for transitional seasons.  One of the few to see beyond the more predictable of the checked glens.  Perhaps you didn’t notice his superstitious nature.  He avoids even numbers of pockets.”

“Does he?  Like some do with flower bouquets?  And gifts of sweets?” 

Mycroft bites at another smile on his lips. “True.  Ah, as regards the latter, I’ve just brought in no fewer than seven anise and orange butter pastries from a charming little _pâtisserie_ in Arles.  Sinful.”

“They sound lovely, unless you weren’t actually implying you’d share.”

“For now I’m taunting you.”

“At your own brother’s wedding.”

“Sinful _._ You’ve been informed.”

Sherlock is standing aside, his pale cheeks a shell pink; he has never seen Mycroft so tolerant of another human being in his life.  He undertakes a series of checks in his head as to whether Alex could have been commissioned by Mycroft from the very start, abandoning it after four nerve-wracking seconds.  John is hanging close by, with his mouth open in a confused ‘o’.  “Wh - thffff -- “ he mumbles, for them both.  “Damn.  Like _Pride and Prejudice,_ or.”

“John.”

“They _know_ each other?”

“Clearly.”

“Ho. Is he -- MI5?  MI6?”

_“No.”_

“Jesus, bloody petrifying.”

_"Nngh!”_

“Heh.” John clears his throat and rocks forward and back on his heels.  “He’s -- nicked your friend, or?”

“He was _my_ _friend first!_ ” Sherlock whispers back. 

 _“Shagging?”_ John asks in a low whisper.

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock rumbles.

The next several minutes fade into a blurred stream as Sherlock watches the clock on the mantelpiece; he has a momentary horror that it has stopped and everything will be thrown into irreconcilable discord; after watching his brother and his friend for another half a minute, he has another horror that it will proceed according to a plan he knows nothing about.  Neither occur, but he has definitively forgotten his lines.  If indeed there had been any.  He gropes for John at the sudden entrance of a portly, smiley middle-aged registrar in bifocal glasses on a rubberised string, with a loud paisley tie that instantly becomes an unwanted focal point to four detail-oriented men. 

Said party assembles themselves in a line before a large desk, in the absence of chairs.

“Gentlemen,” the registrar intones as he peers at them all in turn.  “This place, in which we have met today, has been duly sanctioned according to law for the celebration of marriages.  We have gathered to witness the marriage between Doctor John Watson and Mister Sherlock Holmes, and if any person here present knows of any legal reason why these two people should not be joined in marriage they should declare it.”

John mentally fires a mortar in the direction of his best man.  

The customary pregnant silence passes and the registrar continues, “I am obliged to remind you, gentlemen, of the solemn and binding character of the vows you are taking.  Marriage in the laws of our country is a voluntary union between two persons, for life, to the exclusion of all others.  And, moreover, to love and support one another in times of sickness and health, joy and sorrow.  Now, then.  We shall proceed to the declaration of your freedom to enter into matrimony.  Are you, Mister Sherlock Holmes, free, lawfully, to marry Doctor John Watson?"

Sherlock swallows and huffs, "I am.”

“Will you therefore take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love, cherish and be faithful to him, throughout your married life together?”

“I will.”

“Thank you.  Now, then.  Are you, Doctor John Watson, free, lawfully to marry Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

“Yes, I am,” John replies, which is perhaps the stickiest bit for him that day.

“And will you therefore take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband --“

Alex loses his slipping composure, just then, and breaks down (silently).  To Mycroft the timing is revealing.  To Sherlock, it is an inconvenient mirroring of his own shadowy anxieties and he mashes his teeth together.

“ -- To love, cherish and be faithful to him, throughout your married life together?”

“I will,” John says, and the determination is palpable.

There is a pause when the only sound in the universe seems to be Alex’s shuddering breath just behind Sherlock’s right shoulder.  The registrar glances up at Alex over his glasses frames.  “Mister Holmes, repeat after me.  I call upon those present to witness.”

To the pointed exclusion of his friend’s precarious emotional state, Sherlock has become absorbed in the paisley swells (eleven of them) on the man’s tie and blinks.  “I -- call upon those present to witness.”

“That I take you, John, as my lawful wedded husband.”

“That I take you, John.  As my lawful wedded -- husband.”  _Keep it together._

“Doctor Watson.  The same.  I call upon those present.”

“I call upon those present.”

“That I take you, Sherlock.”

John is paling.  Fighting admirably.  “That I take you.  Sherlock.”

“As my lawful wedded husband.”

“As my lawful wedded husband.”  John suppresses a nervous _hah_ which is crushing the air out of his chest.  Finally he lets himself relax (a little) and grins over at Sherlock, who to him looks a bit shocked but pleased. 

The legal minimum in the event has lasted four minutes and twenty-two seconds, by Mycroft’s count, binding promises and rings having been exchanged long before.  Sherlock and John sign a floppy register book and their witnesses follow suit.  One of them is so affected he can hardly see his own fingers, the other utterly impassive with concentration; each man signs with his own pen -- for Alex does not borrow pens as a rule and Mycroft does not lend them on principle.  There have rarely been two lovelier signatures on one page since the era of the great treaties, and John nearly says something about it, but there is no real context for it, so he smiles blankly instead.  Emotions run high but it appears that Alex alone has given them expression; ironically, he is the only one with the presence of mind to suggest snapping a photograph once the papers have been signed.  The registrar obligingly takes a number of them in front of the lovely hearth in the room, with the men’s telephones. 

The snapshots turn out very well.  Sherlock notices that in all of them he is holding John’s hand tightly; John points out that it’s fortunate they’d at least had their writing hands free to sign, because he had not let go of him for a second once the registrar had entered the room.  Sherlock gripes under his breath.

“Sherlock, something so genuine is certainly not _ludicrous_ in the least,” Alex remarks, “particularly since you didn’t kiss afterward.”

“Uhm.” John blinks and several deep furrows appear on his forehead. 

Alex gasps.  “Oh, Lord.  Don’t tell me you forgot.  I thought it was because _we_ were here!” he exclaims, gesturing at himself and Mycroft.

“No, no, they’ve merely forgotten,” Mycroft says to him.  “Evident by the left corner of John’s mouth.”

Alex sighs and takes Sherlock aside by the arm for a word.

John stares over at them and licks his lips.  Indeed:  they’d been too focused on the words, themselves.  The registrar, who is writing off to the side at a small table, looks (even more) red-faced; he hadn’t dared suggest anything; theirs had been his first same-sex ceremony to date, and as a secret fan of John’s blog, he’d been _more than a tad jumpy about calling the shots, so to speak_ , as he himself will admit to the press a month or so later. 

“It’s all right, of course it is, you’ll make up for it.  Sherlock.  It’s impossible to put into words what it was like to see that,” Alex says to Sherlock, who expresses his agreement by finding himself unable to respond.  “You dear man, I know you’ll take wonderful care of him.”  Alex kisses his cheek and hugs him.  Sherlock hugs him back, trying not to crush him too much, deeply absorbed, just for that second ( _irises and amber),_ in registering the fact that the artist has again understood far more than he has given him credit for. 

“Congratulations on your happy day,” Mycroft attempts, to John. “A moment for reflection.  After all, ‘this is no time for ease and comfort.  It is time to dare and endure’.”

“Uhm.  That’s -- about -- what I was just thinking.  Thank you.  Brother-in-law,” John mumbles back and grins winningly.

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles tightly and turns away.

“John,” Alex intervenes, offering his hand with formal poise as though he were about to decorate John for bravery (because someone really should).  “I wish you all the best in the world, wherever your next adventures take you in your life together.  It’s been such a pleasure to witness your happiness, the sort that could only come from a true marriage of hearts and minds.  I’m convinced your best times are ahead of you.”

“Wow.  Thanks.  Very much.  You’ve always, uhm.  Nice of you.  Thank you.”  _Jesus, look at us all.  What a road._

“Any plans, now?” Alex asks.  “Sherlock mentioned a sex holiday, I believe he called it?”  He smiles in spite of himself and cannot avoid thinking of John’s growling officer’s voice.  “Will that be...here or abroad?”

John’s ears go pink.  He coughs.  “Uh.  Yeah.  Short trip to the seaside.  Where are our....  Uhm.  Where are they?”  John asks, hissing to himself a bit ( _our?_ ) and looking about.  

“I’d hardly know where to look,” Alex replies.  “I do hope they’re not drawing blood, in any event.”

“Yeah.  Hmm.  Smoking.  In the toilet.”

“The aluminium crutch,” the registrar says as he approaches John, waving a black plastic pen around like a baton.  “I’d really like to know...the crux!  Of the crutch!”

“I’ll have a look,” Alex tells John and nods at the registrar.

“Uh.  Yeah, do that.”

Sherlock and Mycroft have indeed snuck off to the gents’ lavatory for one of their most-needed indoor smokes, _ever_.

“Was that _really_ so difficult?” Mycroft asks, sucking a puff between his teeth. 

“You can’t even bring yourself to share a pen.  I’m married, for God’s sake.” Sherlock chuckles.

“Oh, shut up,” Mycroft coughs.

“A word to the wise is sufficient,” Sherlock tells him. 

Mycroft raises his brows in challenge. 

“Nobody,” Sherlock remarks lightly, “enjoys a fag like I do.”  

Sherlock snorts to himself as Alex opens the door of the toilet.  “Ah, John said you’d be here.”  He looks at them both smoking and sighs.  “Sherlock, dear, there’s one more formality, please speak to the registrar when you’ve both finished with your death sticks.” 

Sherlock quickly shows the tip of his tongue to Mycroft at ‘death sticks’.

“He wanted to present your marriage certificates,” Alex adds.  “And ask you what the ‘crux of the aluminium crutch’ was, he said.”

“Low tar,” Mycroft remarks and blows a large smoke ring at Sherlock, which nearly frames his face.

Alex turns on Mycroft.  “Now, did I hear you quote Churchill, to John?  Honestly!”  

Sherlock could grab him and kiss him senseless for that.  But then again, he’s _married_.  

Just then, his soldier appears with an envelope in his hand.  “Oi, blocking the way so I’m sure to piss myself?  Move it.”

_11:35_

Sherlock and John leave the building through a rear entrance.  John rushes straight back in to the gents’ to get their forgotten wedding certificates and storms out again to climb into a car driven by Mycroft’s chauffeur, Rodney.In the brief absence of the driver, Mycroft explains that he and Alex have a moment to kill.  He elects to show the artist the club’s secret back staircase from the library, the door to which they are standing in front of; it is well-disguised among the oak wood panelling along the annex wall. 

“You might not be aware that your grandfather makes an allusion to these very stairs in his early monograph on sublimation, _On the Vicissitudes through Transference_ , from 1947.  As a metaphor for conveyance of experience through little-seen acts and methods.  From the source of knowledge, to the baser instincts in the subconscious.” 

Alex watches Mycroft bolt the hidden spring-loaded door behind them.  “Really?” he remarks.

Mycroft turns and fixes the full strength of his leaded stare on Alex.  “Save your evening for me.  I'll have news for you.” 

“A lot of news, then?” Alex asks.

Mycroft studies him for a moment and then reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket.  “No.”  He removes a card.  Alex sees instantly that it is the one beautifully inscribed _Essential_.  “Here you are.” 

“Your -- ”

“Here.  You.  Are.”

Alex holds his breath.  It’s a peculiar moment, indeed; Mycroft’s intentions seem clear enough, even if their limits are not.  Alex takes the card; inconveniently, he has begun recalling broom closets and discreet dark corners past, none of which would compare to _this_ place -- a low-ceilinged nook that makes them both feel they should bow their heads a bit, crowded by a whitewashed wooden spiral staircase and side-lit by panels of colourful glass which are inset along a nearby wall. 

“Don’t _think_ of them,” Mycroft says.

Alex struggles to smile coolly, though none of his thoughts have given him any reason to smile, much less feel calmer, now.  He has known (of) no equal to the unfathomable, scarily absorbing person standing in front of him -- closer than he normally would -- who has never as much as shaken his hand.  It’s disorienting.   

“Alexander.  I don’t mean to frighten you.” 

Alex nods.  “Thank you,” he replies, referring mostly to the card, which he puts into his own pocket.

“Think of me once this afternoon,” Mycroft tells him.

Alex glances back at him.  Has he heard a command or an appeal?  Perhaps neither?  Regardless, the moment is dense; it seems to have its own sound:  a persistent clicking of elevated measure, at odds with the tick of the old watch.  “You know my secrets,” he remarks.

“A good many,” Mycroft affirms.

“But not that I already think of you often -- dare I say, in return?” 

Mycroft looks at him again, dispassionately reading him.  “Do you.”

Alex is about to fly toward the sun.  Which may be why his head feels so warm he can hardly stand it.  “In fact,” he says, running a soft gaze over Mycroft, pausing at his mouth before returning to those impenetrable gray eyes again.  “I do.”  He steps in a bit more, still very much alive. 

“Yet I don’t engage you _much_ ,” Mycroft replies, guardedly. 

“How wrong you are,” Alex responds.  Mycroft looks stung for a moment at that claim but another thought wins out as Alex rubs his cheekbone lightly against Mycroft’s as if they’d been dancing and their faces had met by chance.  “Stop me, if I don’t mean the same to you,” he says gently.  “If I’ve misunderstood again.”

Mycroft is silent; the dissolute scent of iris is too close.  _No.  Invert that.  Finally close enough._

In several difficult seconds, marked by the _slip-tick_ of Alex’s watch, Mycroft carefully circles an arm around Alex’s shoulder and runs his hand up his nape, letting his fingers card into his hair; the artist feels a shiver of want for that precise touch and closes his eyes just as his mind registers that he _has_ it -- the man has deduced his weakness for _that_ , and has chosen it, _first_.  Their noses brush gently and their lips meet in a hesitant, very brief kiss.

“I’ll want another,” Mycroft says, quietly.  “After dinner.”

“What sort?” Alex asks.

“That was very fine.”  Mycroft hasn’t let him go.

“I’ve another,” Alex says, leaning forward more boldly, grazing his lips lightly over Mycroft’s and letting the very tip of his tongue open them gently before he gives one far more hopeful kiss, and smiles, leaving his breath to tickle Mycroft’s cheek. 

“Another?”  This time Mycroft kisses him back.  More keenly, but with admirable restraint.  

Soon it softens and Alex breaks it.  “The car -- ?”

Mycroft withdraws his hand and nods.  “Yes.  Apologies.  We’ll be leaving in four minutes and I’m arousing you needlessly.”

Alex swallows and shrugs slightly, in part at _needlessly_.  “But this is lovely.  It has never been so lovely.”  Sadly, it is the truth.  He drifts for a moment in the thick of a silence between them.

For all of his modesty, Alex is still far more of a hazard than a certain quadrant of the Persian Gulf had become as of that morning at eight-thirty, were one to judge by the disquiet raging in Mycroft’s head.  Nothing has been rehearsed, nothing arranged.  It feels like lunacy to him, yet he is most tempted to lean forward and claim the artist’s lips for much longer.  He stops.  It’s gone much too far, already. 

He deflects.  “What do you want to ask.  Say it.”

“Who is it for?  The ring?”

“We won’t speak of the dead, now.”

“What could someone like you possibly need from someone like me.”

“Allow me to admire you,” Mycroft says, carefully. 

Alex studies him, considering.  “You may, if you’ll allow me to admire you.”

“And if someday you should find me agreeable --”

“Remind me,” Alex interrupts.  “Which of them, after dinner tonight?”

Mycroft smiles, unexpectedly.  Broadly enough that his cheeks ache.  “You’ll be my ruin.”

“That smile.  Tell me it was for me.”

“It was.” 

“And that one as well?”

“Yes.” 

They look at each other in silence.  _Intense_ doesn’t begin to express things.

“So, which sort will it be?  I still don’t know,” Alex remarks.

“Dinner is becoming obstructive.”

“The car,  you said --”

“Blast the car.”

“The impending speculation crisis, at four.”

“Yes. The fray awaits." _Three minutes._   Enough to topple him.  His dark reluctance is apparent to Alex, even if little else is, right now. "I may as well command a maelstrom to silence itself by evening."

“Come, now.  _Nemo est tam fortis, quin rei novitate perturbetur_ ,”* the artist says, and smooths a lock of hair at Mycroft's temple. Another well-chosen touch, though he is none the wiser to that.

“Where have you been,” Mycroft murmurs. 

An unmistakable melancholy tints the rest of their exchange.  Alex clears his throat.  “So, then.  I will think of you.  The sort, after dinner?  The way it was, a moment ago,” he says, “when you meant it.”

“Be warned.  By then it may mean more,” Mycroft replies.

“I’m counting on that,” Alex tells him. "This isn't a game. To me. Anymore." It has the tone of a warning, which sounds foreign coming from Alex's mouth.

Mycroft declares there, beneath those narrow, dim stairs (the same ones he’d used to leave discreetly from an interview he’d found disconcertingly interesting, up in the library with his brother’s not-entirely-foolish art teacher), that his portraitist and friend, should he truly allow himself to be admired, will never find his kindness and talents overlooked again.  And tells him to consider very carefully if he is willing to accept it.  All.

Alex is.  And he resolves to offer his discretion, good will, and affection to the most dangerous man in England. He sincerely believes Mycroft’s potential is as magnificent as it is terrifying.  He will soon see he is not wrong, on either count. 

Mycroft turns and opens the door again.  And they leave in separate cars, without another word.

__________________

* _Latin text:_

_\- No one is so brave as not to be disconcerted by the suddenness of the event.  (Julius Caesar, from ‘The Gallic Wars’, 6:39)_

_Great Peter Street -12:32_

Alexander Nussbaum’s world is about to catch fire; unbeknown to him, he is experiencing his last nearly-quiet hours.  As he pulls off his tie and hangs up his suit, he again finds himself listening carefully to the rapid, noisy clicking in his chest; for the first time he is almost grateful for it:  it reminds him that he is _there_.

He reflects.  Mycroft is a purist, even regarding his own feelings, which while deeply concealed are _ardent_.  Unfortunately, they are also distorted by his severely possessive nature.  In fact, a man of lesser character, experience and wit, at his side, would almost find his own _breath_ drawn out for him, and would consider himself fortunate to draw in another, afterward.  Somehow, by upbringing or experience, the elder Holmes brother has come to consider expressions of control and ownership on par with caring; he has nearly irretrievably wrecked Sherlock’s happiness that way.  That corrosive process _cannot_ continue, thinks Alex; it would break his heart to stand by and watch the men carry on as they have; his person has gradually become a point of intersection between the brothers; a risky task stands before this gentle diplomat. 

He already knows that Mycroft poses a certain threat to him (or any object of his incinerating focus).  The master strategist is capable of gestures (and generosity) of real and instant consequence.  That much Alex has seen.  He resolves not to be self-indulgent, ever.  It would be destructive to them both, were he to become complacent. And spoiled. He will fight it. His mind drifts back to that touch at the base of his skull:  the entry point for execution by a single bullet -- like in the spy novels he likes so well -- and the most delicate connective point in his entire being.  How utterly at a loss he will be to resist those hands, and those lips, once their bodies choose to follow their minds any more.  He is ogled, or 'admired' often enough, but no man has ever looked at him -- into him -- quite like _that,_ before, and then kissed it away -- gently, and properly. And as it is, Alex is a nervous wreck after remembering it for several seconds.   _Gracious Peter, have mercy on me._ Now, he will write and draw frantically to distract himself.  Or perhaps go to church.  And try desperately not to _scream_. 

_Baker Street -12:35_

One remark about whether married sex is as dull and sporadic as they say and Sherlock finds himself tickled, tackled and thrown sideways onto the bed, his dress shirt nearly wrecked by John’s reckless unbuttoning.  “Dull.  Dull as hell.  Married my phoenix, he thinks it’s gonna be dull in here, ah, yeah, sure it will.”

“Ahhhggghhh!” Sherlock yells, from where he is now wedged against the headboard.  John is _strong_.  “Joking!  Well.  Not entirely.  _NNnnghhhhaaaah!”  Leverage!_ He bucks free.

“Oh -- oh yeah, more -- hah?  Dull?”  John re-pins Sherlock under himself and looks intently and expressively into his eyes, panting a bit.  “I still can’t believe it.  My best friend and I love you -- so much.”

“Mmm, John.”

“Let’s take a different train?  Spend some time instead.”

“Yes.  Undress.”

“Take those off.”

“ _Ohhhgghh_.”

John has pinned his arm one last time.  “Dull?”

“Nnnnnever.  Mmm.”

“Hmmm, nope.”  John has put his lips over Sherlock’s nipple for a lick.

“Mmmm, John -- _good_.”

“Need to be in you.  Can -- ?”

“M - hm.”

John is licking circles against Sherlock's chest. “Know what it’s like to see you on me?  It’s so amazing, I dream about it.  Sometimes.  My favourite one.  Have you got one, too?”

“Officer on leave in France, wants -- mmmmmm.”

 _“Tu es seul?_ Hmmm? _Mon phénix, tu es tres beau -- ”_ *

“Mmmm.  Soldier.”

_“Viens ici.”_

“ _Pas si vite._  Ask nicely, you’re in town, don't forget yourself.“

“ _S'il vous plaît_.”  John kisses Sherlock’s nose.  “Please, come home with me.  Please, you gorgeous, unbelievably hot -- husband.” John gulps.  “Oh my God,  I love you so much.  So much.”

“Calmly.  John.”

___________________

* _French texts:_

_\- So are you alone?  Hmm?  My phoenix, you look great. / - Come here._

_\- Not so fast._

_\- Please._

_Whitehall - 12:52_

“Andrea,” Mycroft drones from his office chair. 

His assistant appears in the doorway.  “Yes, sir.”

“Last year on the 16th of May you drew my attention at teatime to what you inaptly called a ‘vintage’ text.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.  Social influences at the end of the first Cold War and among them numerous approaches to shaping a political straw-man in order to heighten solidarity in emerging democracies.”

“Which approaches were those?”

“For one, the ‘shared enemy’ phenomenon in the consciousness of the societies.  It forges unlikely bonds among rebellious personalities with dangerous tendencies and refocuses their behaviours, with the added effect of limiting the sphere of their activities to so-termed ‘quasi-subversive’ acts which are far more easily controlled.”

“Oh?”

“A _useful_ procedural model it has been, indeed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I might consider thanking you?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“After all, my brother and John Watson have married, haven’t they.  And moreover, they’ll tend to consider it an act of _defiance_ against me.  Amusing, that.  Shall we tell them?”

“Naturally _not_ , sir.”

“We shan’t, no....  We wouldn’t want another April of 1999 on our hands, would we.”

“We would not, sir.”

“You’ve no idea what I’ve just referred to.”

“No.”

“Your honesty _nearly_ disarms one, at times.”  Mycroft sniffs and opens a folder.

“Thank you very much indeed, sir.”

Mycroft glances down at a text he has just received.

_Apropos recent question: sth you don’t *want* to give him.  Please.  X_

“Operation _Cambridge_ is go.”

Andrea nods.  “Right away.”

“Two letters for Alexander, among my papers for the evening --”

“Sir?”

“The first, regarding the competition for the design of the Beijing pavilion, of course.  Most of his design will be incorporated, the committee voted unanimously for the first time since 2002.  And the other, regarding participation in an exhibit at the Tate Modern this December.  A certain someone from the Equinox party put in a word, apparently.  I had already, but one would never dare draw such things to the attention of her Grace.”

“No, indeed.”

“Ah -- we might ask Dr. Jens Lindberg to review it for the Reuters material, after all he’ll need something to keep him busy once ‘The Hor’ has stopped gyrating about him and has inexplicably run off with a certain club owner from Figures to rejoin secession efforts in Barcelona.  Note that for October first.  Mm....”

“Indeed.  Plans, sir?”

“Dinner.  The prospect of another trade surplus in Denmark this quarter is about to make me peckish.” 

“Preference?” 

“Mm.  The _Haveline,_ though my presence in the same establishment with three -- well.  A full enough house tonight.  _Le Gavroche_ will do, as it happens I’ve an unconquerable hankering for _Millefeuille aux Framboises et Gianduja_.  Order a table for seven o’clock this evening, the one kept by the American Embassy, they’ll have cancelled by seventeen-hundred due to the speculation -- well, we needn’t point it out to them, they’ll notice the pattern in another hour or so.  Perhaps.  Mm.  We’ve got this morning’s resignations in the Albanian parliament to ponder...expect a shuffle in Italy, as per usual.”

_Transit - 15:06_

The train to King’s Lynn has just left London.  John is sitting as still as a hyper-alert, nervously-spent retired soldier can be expected to -- who has just married the great love of his life, mind you, and had gone straight home with him for what he'd described post-coitally as _one of the hottest fucks in London’s collective history_.  His neck aches from where Sherlock had actually wrapped a leg round him ( _yoga, Jesus_ ); his knees are still weaker than they’d usually be.  He is reading a sports section with very little focus; Sherlock sits across from him, lithe legs crossed, his eyes tightly shut, with pressure bands on his wrists.   

As they approach Cambridge, Sherlock receives a text.  “What -- mmm,” he mumbles.  “Excuse me.”

“Coming with you,” John answers.

They stand and nearly run into a man in a three-piece suit; he greets them both politely by name, gives Sherlock a parcel, and departs the train car as quickly he’d come, just before the doors slide shut.

“What’s that?” John asks.  “Want me to open that?”

Sherlock is running his fingers over the form of the contents, through the paper wrapping.  “N -- mmm.  No, it’s -- good.“

“What’re those books, love?”

 _Mummy’s hive registers?  Don’t be absurd, brother.  You won’t see as much as a shopping list of hers until you are no longer the worst disgrace the Holmes family has yet seen, a considerable achievement in its own right!  And for her sake, hand over the botanicals -- !_  

“What is it?”

 _An olive branch.  Why?_ ”Mm.”

“’Kay.”  John leans back and his cheeks puff as he blows out a long breath and picks up his magazine again.

_Why now?  Wedding.  Where did they go.  The stairs.  Why.  Oh._

Sherlock puts the packet on his knees, folds his arms and closes his eyes.  If John were paying attention he would see that his phoenix is becoming more and more moved.  He has just understood that the most dangerous man in England is no longer alone:  that very day, it appears, a certain well-bred, mild-mannered, über-talented and _catalytic_ draughtsman has been drawn into a very complex game.  

_Best man, indeed.  Oh, hell, Alex, have a care, have a care --_

“Hey, love,” John voice breaks in, suddenly.  “You’re pale.  Are you nauseated?  Got your bands on your wrists?”

_Holkham, Norfolk - 18:40_

When John and Sherlock have reached the beach in Holkham, they stand together in the fading light and a mist that goes cold on their skin in a wind which whips at their hair and tugs the hems of their coats in all directions.  They are completely alone.  It’s about to rain.  John smiles over at his friend, intending to remark that the wind is being bloody impossible.  _Hard to block out this time._

 _This time_.  

The entirety of the day so far begins impressing on them.  John’s eyes are so dark and confused that Sherlock leans forward and kisses his forehead a few times.  “My dearest treasure in the world, in front of _them_ , and I watched it happen,” Sherlock says.

“And I’m the happiest bloke in England.  You’ve done that.”

“Mmmm?“

“Really, yeah.”

Sherlock pulls John closer and holds his head gently in his hands.  “You have a headache.  Your eyes.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I -- can’t focus, John.”

“It’s all right.”

“Last night you said you’d move this,” Sherlock says, putting up his right hand.  “It’s as good a time as any.”

John smiles at Sherlock’s attempt at nonchalance.  “Yeah, yeah, I didn’t forget.”  John removes the ring from Sherlock’s finger and looks down at it, nodding to himself.  “Give me your other hand, there.”  He grasps Sherlock’s left ring finger and brings it to his mouth; he kisses that long hand all over, pressing kisses on his wrist and palm until he is sure he can speak.  Even then, he doesn’t find all the words he’d meant to say, beyond, “I wanted you.”

Sherlock nods.

“You have amazing hands, love.” John has slipped Sherlock’s ring onto the tip of his own index finger, and curls his hand into a fist, holding it in place.

“So do you.  John.”  Sherlock watches John’s face very closely. _Not good._  

“I need to tell you something, right now,” John says, biting his lips. 

“What is it.”

“There’s, uhm.” John has worn that expression before.  Emotions are tearing at him; he looks almost furious in posture, with round, dark, vulnerable eyes.  “Something.  Kept me going a few times.  That there might be someone that won’t leave.  That’s you.  There’s, uhm.”

“What.”

“There’s something I’ll want, from you.  As my spouse.”

Sherlock suddenly has the sensation that he is flying to pieces.  He still has no idea why such a generic term should even matter when so little has changed, yet it does.

“Look.  Never wanted to think about it much.  But, it’s part of what you promised me.  Uhm.  When the day comes, I want to be put to rest by your hands.”

“Well.  It’s --“ 

“You’ll bury me, next time.  Understand?”

 _Next -- oh._   “John.  Neither of us can anticipate --”

_“Do.  You.  Understand?”_

“Mmmm.  Yes.”

“That’s part of why I could do this.  Remember what you promised.”

“J --“

_“Say it.”_

“I promise I will never leave you behind.”

John finally pushes the ring carefully onto Sherlock’s finger and brings it to his lips again. 

“Now you.  Say it,” Sherlock answers.

“You are my last love.”

“Okay.” 

“Love of my life.  Good to have you.  So good.  Know that?”

The beach is still completely abandoned, as if for them, alone.  And if ever the intention to love unto death can be expressed -- they try to express it, right then.  They are _married_ , after all -- as Sherlock will remind John a number of times in the hours (and years) that follow.

_Burnham Market, Norfolk - 22:58_

Having steeled himself mentally, Sherlock looks through the “Cambridge” packet at the hotel, with his head in John’s lap, on the bed.  He spends more time on a letter from Hinault, one of a stack once belonging to his mother, stuffed in the back of a hardbound hive registry book.  From the way Sherlock is staring at the book, John can see it’s something more than precious to him.  He catches a glimpse of entries written in childish cursive.  _Oh my God, we need to find you a place where you can finish those, at least figuratively._

At last, Sherlock reads a fragment of the letter aloud for John, who cannot quite understand it, so he translates from the French:

_“Many days the sea is no longer beautiful to me but part of a non-navigable barrier between us of liquid not unlike a human tear, cried for an impossible love.  Until I read your letter I was certain that I will love nobody else aside from you, my beautiful little red rabbit, in my life.  Although when I read from you that I have a healthy son I am the proudest man in France and I will love him, too.  You will know better than anyone on earth how to love him for two people.  I am leaving for a longer time to Indonesia.  You will not hear  --”_

“Amazing.”

“That, I had not seen.  Well.  Enough.” Sherlock folds up the letter and pushes the packet aside. 

“That’s one of the most bloody beautiful things I’ve ever heard.  From a father, you know.  God.  That’s.  Really.”

“You mentioned, earlier, that you wanted -- me.”

“Oh, yeah.  Still do.”

“Always yourself.  Always.  I love you, John.”

“Love you, too.”

“Impossible --”

“Hmm?  No.”

Sherlock exhales.  He’s unexpectedly nervous.  “I want to kiss you,” he says.

John grins and glances over at him.  “So go on.”


	42. To run unchecked

“Bath,” Sherlock says.  “You never did join me in this, you’ve no clue what you’re missing in terms of -- soaking.”

“Sure.” 

John and Sherlock are in the bathroom at their hotel -- the same place in Burnham Market that they'd stayed at during their last, memorable trip to Norfolk.  This time, their room is plush and beautifully eclectic, too, but predominantly green instead of pale blue.  Most importantly (according to Sherlock) there is a free-standing, claw-footed bathtub in front of them, like the one he'd enjoyed so much before.  He is looking down at it admiringly.  “Get me one,” he says.  "I want one.  Look at it, John." 

“If we put it up in my room, sure,” John remarks.

“I want to wash you.  Undress.”

“Wh...uhm.”  John starts unbuttoning his shirt as Sherlock turns on the water for them and darts out.  He returns only in a swathing of blue, his dressing gown tied so loosely that it falls open as soon as he reaches for John’s shoulder.  “We’re friends,” John mumbles, first to the cooperative gown and then to the beginnings of an erection that Sherlock is rubbing against the thigh of his jeans.  He runs a palm down Sherlock’s back and feels Sherlock’s hand on his neck, pulling him closer to his bare chest for a kiss to the forehead.

"Mmmm, John.  Faster."

“You can take it all off,” John says, and nuzzles his cheek against Sherlock’s jaw and neck.  He takes a little bite while Sherlock’s fingers fly over all his buttons and he starts pulling down his clothes for him.  The entire place is affecting John.  “I think I’ve started to like it when you do that.”

Sherlock smiles, all naughty valet.  Then he stands back and allows himself a moment, just to to let those same roguish eyes wander over John's body and back up to his soldier’s bold, inviting gaze.  "Good.  I'll always want to.  You'll always be like this, to me.”

John tries to smile but he has the sort of look he'd had earlier on, at Baker Street, just after the wedding when they’d been at a moment between wrestling around on the bed and near tears from relief and happiness that they’d managed. They’d not been stopped, or interrupted from saying it: _I am, I will_.  "Damn," John mutters.  "You're amazing."

Sherlock sniffs a small laugh and hugs John close.  “It’s okay, John.”

"Huh?  Yeah, I know, I know,” John answers.  “So?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and instead catches John’s face in his hands for a long kiss.  John groans and pushes a hand up Sherlock’s back to his nape and buries his warm fingers in the curls there, where he is getting wilder these days from avoiding the barber’s.  Sherlock purrs and John’s hands dig in, one gripping the dressing gown to pull it off.   The running water is drowning out most of the sounds John is making but as the kiss gets hotter and they hold and grasp at each other, the vibration in his throat (that much can certainly be felt) makes Sherlock shiver, even though hot steam is curling up behind him.

He tips away, reaches over, and shuts off the taps.  “We won’t stay in long,” he says, as though it were a deduction. John is about to say _screw the bloody bath_ when Sherlock pulls him over to it and they leap in. 

And they aren’t in for long.  Sherlock seems to have a need to wash John, touch him and explore him quietly for a while, so John lets him and enjoys a bit of massage and care.  There’s also payback for the tickling earlier on, along the way.  Afterward John finds himself leaned back against Sherlock’s chest, his cock bobbing about, looking monstrous down in the water (Sherlock hums and grasps at it), and he remembers a scene after his street accident, when Sherlock had helped him in the tub and they’d wound up exactly this way; he’d felt like a lover with a terrible headache and not a patient who couldn’t manage a shower, with Sherlock’s hands soaping him all over (giving him a long, fantastic hand job, tweaking at his nipples, licking his ear and telling him how well he’s doing, even if it wasn’t entirely true -- he’d lost it a little -- it had been hard to keep it up but he’d come so hard he’d almost cried).  It all starts to coalesce. The changes.  The way Sherlock is caring for him, in so many ways he’d never realised he'd want -- from anyone.  He feels something like a smack to the chest -- he’s not going to buy in to another practice, at least not in London.  He’s going to find _that place_ for his phoenix.  The one that had come to his mind: _find you somewhere quiet._   They’ve got their finances linked legally, they’ll work it out, he decides.

“What is it, John.”

“Love you.  Just thinking about things.  You?”

“Mm.  An error.” Sherlock has started running a wet hand over John’s hair.  “Mass imaging spectrometry on human hair.  Think about the evidence used by toxicologists to identify addicts.  Now, if the addict, say a woman, dyes her hair with chemicals that strip the cuticle of pigment...mmm.  The Gloustermoore Lane girl with the puncture scars in November of 2010.  There was an  _error_.  Incomplete data.”

“Hmm.  Uhm.  Yeah, any reason you thought of -- that, while touching _my_ hair?”  John asks and turns his neck a bit.

“A text from a lapidarist.  Earlier on.”  Sherlock shakes his head and hisses himself back into the present.  “Soldier, I want to get out, now.  You?”

“Hmmm, yeah.  Lapidarist?”

“Lapidarist.  Your lapidarist,” Sherlock says, lifting John’s hand and kissing his ring finger, as though it were explanation enough.  He licks the water-softened palm and John snickers. 

“’Kay.  You know what?” John says, standing up from between Sherlock’s legs, water rushing over the contours of his muscular arse and back.  Sherlock stares at some of the streams and licks at one before closing his teeth on the back of John’s thigh.  “Oi.”

“What.”

“Do that in bed.  Come on.”

Sherlock’s heart starts to race as he pulls open the drain and climbs out of the bathtub.  He doesn’t even feel like toweling off.  He grasps John, head still soaked, and presses his body against John’s from behind.  “Soldier,” he says, suddenly.  “That you did this, that you ever agreed to be mine, that you’ve done this.”  He exhales on the back of John’s neck and holds him tightly in front of the partially-fogged mirror in the bath. 

John’s brain seems to stutter and shut off for a moment.  He turns and presses a kiss against the crook of the long neck just next to his face and sighs heavily, “Love you so much.  God, look at you...”

They stand there for a long minute or two, just holding on to each other, trying to breathe.  Sherlock slips his hands lower down John’s stomach.  “I want to take you. But not to _bed_ ,” he says, brushing his fingertips over John’s thighs and pressing up to John's arse.  “Mmmmm.  You are thick on the outside yet very, _very_ warm and narrow on the inside,” he says, in a voice that makes John’s cock jump, ready for more.  “Perfect.  The window, John, I want to have sex with you in the chair.  By the window, in there.” He nods toward the room.

 _Fuck, talk to me, fuck yeah._  “Yeah.”

“Fast,” Sherlock adds, and seems to be waiting for an answer when John turns around in his arms and closes a hand under his sac. 

“All that for me. Now,” John growls.

That's answer enough; they stumble, kissing and grinding against each other, into the room; Sherlock pushes John onto a stuffed high-back armchair so he is on his knees, sinking into its soft seat; his chest is pressed against the back of the chair and he rests his head on the top, mumbling and swearing as Sherlock licks a path down his spine and slicks his hole, first with his tongue ( _ffffuck_ ) and then bringing in a bit of lube; John hears the smallest groan of impatience from Sherlock as he touches himself, just enough to rub off against John’s arse before holding him still by the stomach and thrusting his slim cock in for the first stretch; it sets off a flood of endorphins in John and a sharp noise breaks out from his throat that pushes them both over into a mad rhythm; Sherlock is sliding his hands under John’s stomach and John braces his palms against the upholstery of the chair as he takes each of the long, quick pushes with loud, deep grunts.   _“Christ,”_ John howls, arching his back as Sherlock kisses John’s shoulder and bites down on it for a moment, this time very much aware. "Love -- you."

"I love you, John," Sherlock moans and almost coughs at the sound of himself, and when John huffs something incoherent back, he says it again.  “I love you.  I love you, I love -- you.  John -- J -- _ahhhh, my John, soldier.”_

John is swearing and writhing against the back of the chair; Sherlock pulls him against himself with both hands on his hips and licks John’s nape.  John rewards that with a louder moan and grabs onto his cock for a squeeze as arousal hits and tightens in Sherlock’s abdomen.  He chokes another word and comes, holding John as orgasm rocks wildly through him and he leaves everything he has inside of him.  He doesn’t want to pull out, he doesn’t want to let go; he is about to say something more but kisses John’s neck again instead.  "I love you."

“Jesus,” John says, panting and shaking his head.  “Love when you -- talk.  It’s -- need to -- Jesus, a towel.  Yeah.  Do it, love, I'm close, fucking close, God, yeah, fuck -- you're the hottest -- oh Christ!  Ahhhh -- yeahhh! Yeah! Ahhh!” 

***

“Now then, news.”

Mycroft and Alex are in a discreet room at  _Le Gavroche,_ finishing the last of a small but lusciously flavoured supper.

“Mycroft.  I thought we finished with news over the salads?  The Tate.  Beijing!  I’m shocked out of my _senses_ for the next year at least.  Enough, for now.”  Alex slices at a bit of carrot on his plate.

“No.  Biarritz, the day after tomorrow, two days.”

Alex's eyes widen.  He glances up.  “ _Biarritz_?”

“An informal European Council gathering, regarding strategic agenda priorities, among them migration control, a far-sighted emissions amendment which nobody is likely to sustain by the autumn vote,” Mycroft replies, cutting one of the last bits of heavily gingered vegetables with balsamic vinegar sauce, after having reluctantly reconsidered the raspberry dessert he’d come for, “Organic food labelling standards which will be postponed due to the interests of the same American-owned concerns who have quietly introduced GMOs to the Ukrainian breadbasket farms as part of their aid package -- they’ve the nerve to send a paid-out runner to _this_ event -- and two dozen others, though we are concerned with _what_?  The debate on the wording of the Council’s conclusions regarding the West Balkans.  Bosnia and Herzegovina.  As I mentioned to you recently -- concerning their electoral system?  Recall?  _Imperative_ to have a hand in the wording, given a certain matter underwater off the shores.  And then there are those who are likely to wash ashore dead or alive in the next decade.  Migration, overlooked at every turn.  A majority of French and American diplomats, orders of precedence will be according to French protocols, the Americans will fall back on their boorish pragmatism.  Ah.  Regarding your non-verbal cues in the larger group settings -- tomorrow you will train with a specialist for three hours in the morning starting at ten, no worries, he’ll come to you if you wish.  Yes?  Expect him.  Don’t object, a majority in the corps train _continually_ , particularly the more slippery intercultural matters in relation to current -- _what is it!_ ”

“Do you want --“

“Alexander.  Unless the fact of spending two days on delegation is disagreeable to you, you’ve no legitimate objection.  Sherlock won’t be _watercolouring_ with you in the meantime, and you’re just between commissions.  There will be six in the party, yourself included, travelling by charter; on site, in the event of any discomfort, you will have the best medical care in the _Euskal Herria_ at your disposal, you are accompanying me with full clearance, in the character of a specialist and not as an individual _of indistinct status_ ,” Mycroft remarks, waving and wincing to himself priggishly. “You will have your own quarters and take meals on your own conditions.  So you will kindly extract your _head from the sand_ and agree!  Questions?”

“Yes!  One thing.  Do you want me there, as your friend?” Alex asks.

“Yes, naturally.”

“That’s all you had to say.  How many suits, then?”

“Three, one for evening, quiet dress, it isn’t Brussels.  What now?”

“Honestly, Mycroft, what will I even _do_ there?”

“Infinitely more than the morons around you.  You will listen, observe, absorb, master.  What better experience for a skilled portraitist who has occasionally drawn sewer system lines, than to watch the innards of Old Europe and its legislative processes?”  Mycroft raises his brows sardonically.

“Over official dinners, no less.  I’m not entirely prepared.”

“Just so.  Brace yourself, you’ll have Randall for that, in the morning.  Pay him mind, his advice will be useful.”

“Okay.  So.  A toast.  If you count those made with water?”

“When well enough spoken.”

“So.  May we continue to have the good fortune to spend such lovely times, and the good sense to appreciate -- ehhh -- what.  What have I said, now?” Alex’s eyes glitter with confusion as he sets his glass down.

Mycroft smiles wryly.  “Insufferable.  Another.  Say what you _mean_.”

While not entirely a toss of a gauntlet, the gentle man responds.  “Another?”  Alex pauses to think.  And gazes softly at Mycroft over his glass, letting all of the sorts of after-dinner kisses he imagines (and fears, in all honesty) show in his eyes and says, “Well, then.  To that thing divine, of description which makes it less, it is what we feel, but dare not define, what we know -- yet shall not express?” 

Mycroft has to look away from him.  He is _lost_.  Stricken to the very substance of _himself_ , particularly his habitually lonely self, and he cannot _stand_ it.  Alexander, he thinks, cannot know his power, which is already disquieting him at a seemingly-cellular level, tonight.    “ _Gezuar_ ,” he replies, and tips his glass back, nearly choking on his wine for the constriction in his throat.  “Returning to the Albanian parliament, Alexander, the resignations.  It occurs to me -- mm.  Are you feeling well?” Mycroft inquires casually, watching tells on Alex’s pleasant face as he swallows again and sets his glass aside. 

The artist looks distractedly at the paintings around the room; it is apparent that he doesn’t care much for them, and rightfully so.  He sighs, suddenly.  “A bit overwhelming, as my days go.  My dearest friend’s marriage, the -- facts of -- you.  That is, you and me.”  He blinks.  “I’m glad we’ve come to a sort of understanding.  Lord, have me shot for being so dull.  The _news_ you’ve brought me.  Too much at once.  Too much.”

“My work is rather an incessant bevy of...such things.  It isn’t entirely to your liking, I see.”

“I’m _nervous_ , Mycroft, not least because _it is_ to my liking.  But on a day like this allow a human being to be _tired_.”

Mycroft’s face blanks.  He picks up his glass again. 

Alex drops his eyes to his own water glass and studies the reflected light along its rim.  “Well.  Inasmuch as I don’t mortify you in Biarritz, it could be great fun.”

“Alongside our staff you’d need to triple your best efforts,” Mycroft replies, “to mortify me.”

“That’s --“   _Gracious Peter, stop me, this cannot be happening._ “-- Kind of you, considering my potential.”

Mycroft needn’t be reminded of Alex’s potential, _like beacons in reverse, those soft,_ _inexplicably dilated, indulgent eyes!_ “Shall we go?”

“Sorry, you mean, home?”   The anxiety in Alex’s voice is unmistakable. 

Mycroft clarifies.  “Alexander, you’re tired.  You’re going home, and I’m returning to work.”

“It’s -- eleven.  Do you sleep at all?”

“Yes.  Shall we?”

“Sorry?”

“Go?”

And they do.  They pay for nothing.  The staff avert their eyes as they leave.  It is bizarre to Alex, particularly in hindsight, as though the entire world has been cleared away and rendered irrelevant.  And the moment they enter the car and pull into traffic, when they are quite alone, Mycroft turns and draws him in for the first, cautious kiss.  Understanding that he should counter, Alex places a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek and absorbs the feeling of being _there_ with him, finally -- before looking for his mouth in the near-pitch dark of the car, choosing a place just next to his lips, on his cheek, that tastes like cedar and orange, rubbing his lips over the exact spot where Mycroft’s widest smile had reached, that morning.  His smiles are much too rare, thinks Alex, elemental and a bit forgetful in appearance.  Charming, for it.  Alex can feel the beginnings of one where he is kissing Mycroft now but he cannot see a thing; his body prods at his mind to let his heart run unchecked, at last.  And it does; his blood is roaring in his ears with an intensity that would normally mean he is ill and has forgotten a dose of something important, but this time he is breathing well, though it all feels uncontrollable, like a fall.  Mycroft is fraught enough now that he catches Alex’s lip in his and kisses him at once in spite of his best intentions to preface it more carefully.  The kiss turns heated and open as good manners are quickly handed off for distracted panting into each other's mouths.  Mycroft's plans to sit up with his papers, indifferently, are overturned -- as soon as he gives in to the soft, wet strokes of Alex’s lithe tongue:  even now, it is sincere, fond and becoming complexly inventive.  Alex will not dare to touch the man anywhere but takes the hand that is closed over his jaw and cheek and tries to hold it.  Mycroft pulls it back and shakes his head, his kisses falling under a shadow of apology, and thinning, before he moves his head away just far enough to say, “Your street, Alexander.  Collect your thoughts.  Goodnight.”  The last touch on the artist’s lips, one of experience with a little, reluctant-to-part nip at the end, makes Alex shake his head to himself as he whispers back, “Goodnight.”  A flash of a street-lamp on an elemental smile:  the last clear image of a day that has ended _meaning more_ ; Rodney has not exited the car; Mycroft holds out a little packet wrapped in paper without a word, and smiles rather wickedly.  Alex takes it, slams the door behind himself and barely stuffs his key into the door-lock.  He unwraps the paper upstairs and finds (sinful) little French anise and orange cakes from Arles.  Four of the seven.   _Generous._


	43. On our side

Alex and Sherlock are presently sketching in the living room at Baker Street.  It's the first time they have seen each other since the wedding and numerous smug and secretive smiles seem to be crossing each of their faces; for the past half an hour they have managed to talk around things; Alex has also shown Sherlock a simple way to make crepes (shockingly simple, and he has described a second version with a batter based on beer).

“And how was it.  Your...honeymoon -- no details needed, I mean the environs of -- Wells, or?  Where were you?” Alex finally asks, knowing Sherlock will soon counter with some questions of his own.

“Burnham Market.  Excellent environs as far as a hypothesis I’d had regarding John and coastal air.”  Sherlock chuckles darkly.  (Alex claps his hands over his eyes.)  “Rain, so we stayed in and he didn’t go in for pointless sightseeing as he tends to.  Speaking of which.  Why.”

“Why...what?”

“Biarritz.”

“Well, you won’t imagine what happened, it would have been the day before you came back.”

“Try me.” Sherlock’s smile drops and he rolls his eyes.  “ _Biarritz_ , I asked.”

“Your brother arranged a psycholinguist to come work on non-verbal cues, for diplomats, you see.”  Alex pulls two magnetic ID cards from his wallet and sets them in front of Sherlock, whose breath catches; he’s well on his way to envious, now.  

 _Because a man nearly touched your arm.  Interesting._ “Why did you agree to behavioural modification.  A bit soon.”

“Sherlock.  Brutal honesty, now.  What were your deductions about me when you first saw me at Sophie’s cafe?”

“Gay.  Privileged.  Religious.”  He shrugs.  Alex’s face pinches.  “Likes animals.  Lives alone.  Newly single.  Does not paint dead men’s ink-work and genitalia.  Corrected teeth and bite.  Elderly guardian or parent.  Knows a Germanic language.  Public schools, plural.  An architect, I’d thought, though I got that bit wrong.  Your go, now.”

“Rather creepy, arrogant but intelligent, cultured, and ill.  You looked ill.”

“Mm.  And you didn’t.  Off my game.”

Alex picks up a pencil and starts sketching.  “I wouldn’t say that.  Well.  Water under the bridge, dear.  If someone is -- well.  Perhaps you’ve found ways of keeping them away.  The point is, and Randall pointed out, too, I draw people to me without wanting to.  I suppose your brother has noticed that I don’t care for certain situations in groups, for instance there was a rather forward danseur at the party recently who made a remark within earshot of Her Grace.  Well.  I don’t mind the advice in the least.  Better to talk it out and discuss ways of circumventing the awkwardness, particularly abroad.  But can I tell you something else?  When the fellow was due, I mean the psycholinguist, the doorbell rang, and it was _Jens_.  He was cycling along the Thames and came by, to ask about Sotheby’s because he’d got the catalogue for that special auction for the orphanages. You know, in honour of Her Majesty’s birthday.”

 _What do we say about coincidence?_   Sherlock leans over to snag his laptop from the floor, and googles Sotheby’s.

“And my sketches from the party recently were listed with a starting price of nine thousand pounds, they’re hand-bound as sort of chapter divisions among a few dozen verses for children, personally chosen by the Family.   All hand-written out and illuminated.  It’s _gorgeously_ done, just beautiful.”

“This?” Sherlock flips around the laptop to show several photographs of the book in question.  “Attractive, true.” 

“Thanks,” Alex beams.  “And it’s expected to be purchased for a private collection, but...we’ll see.  And.  Jens asked me to weigh the option of a job with a team for four months near Hanover.  Because of my German, I suppose.”

“I _suppose_.  You’ve accepted, of course, and prepared an ‘exit strategy’ which is?”

“Sherlock.  I was in the middle of _politely refusing_ when the trainer arrived, Randall -- oh, he was fabulous, he was Indian, tall, smart, _stunning_ brown eyes, like translucent chocolate, lush everywhere, and I said, ‘if you’ve brought along props, lay them out in the other room, there’s more space’, and Jens was _dazed_ and then Randall fell into the part, he’s quite the actor, ‘I’m to work you over three hours and _you’re_ dawdling, so is your colleague joining us, or?’  We had such a laugh over it afterward.”

“You’re cured, then, must be the _adjustment therapy_.  When you wake up from your trance note that instead of a prince in armour, you’ve gone in for the Pale Rider.”

“Please _don’t_.  It’s fine, far more than fine.  But do you find it so disgusting that I’m happy?  Of all people.  You’re the only person who can really understand it and whose acceptance of it _matters_.  It really _matters_.  He doesn’t _say anything_ about you.  Even so, I’ll always support you, Sherlock, isn’t that much clear to you?  After everything?  Honestly.”

 _“Unimportant!”_ Sherlock glares.  “Do what you will.”

“Why are you looking at me like that.  It scares me.”

“Over the years _three people_ associated more closely with my brother have lost their reason.  Two are _dead_.  Two, in nine years!  Why am I _looking at you._ ”

“Perhaps Mycroft _is_ an incarnation of the grim reaper in estate tweed?  Or, he has the misfortune of being drawn to people who have a bit of death about them?  Well.  I insist on living for now and your part in keeping me here all this time -- I’ll never forget it.  _Ever_.  You’re so dear to me, for so many reasons.  So many.”

That comes as completely unexpected.  Sherlock blinks and sighs.  “Okay.”  He almost wants to throw something in frustration but choosing an object is annoying as well.  “Mm.  But actively collect evidence.  Ask him sometime what he’d do, given a _scythe_.” He frowns childishly.

Alex glances at Sherlock, sets down his pencil and pulls his phone from his pocket with a quirk of an eyebrow.  Something in Sherlock’s eyes flashes before diminishing to the previous low boil.  “Good morning.  I am.  I did, a bit.  _Ech._   Lord.  Oh.  You?  I should say so, _ghastly_.  No, I certainly won’t keep you, of course.” (Sherlock makes a thumbs-up gesture and Alex shakes his head at him.)  “Saint Petersburg?  I see.  Ye - sss, later on.  A question has -- arisen.  What would you do, given a scythe?  ‘Hello, brother.’  _Say something.  Answer him!  Nicely!_  And Sherlock says hello.  Oh, _really?_   I always wanted to, they wouldn’t let me, the adrenaline, the exertion and so forth.  _Really?_   Seven.”  Alex rings off and sighs at the nearest wall.  “When the Pale Rider cometh, all in tweed and with a magnificent sword in his clutches, _I shall welcome him_.”  He bursts out laughing at Sherlock, whose cheeks are burning pink.

 _“Alex!”_ Sherlock rolls his eyes and shakes his head.  “ _Sword fighting_.  You’re so conventional it’s excruciating --”

“Kettle, black.  You like _army boys in uniform_.  You couldn’t just say he was a champion fencer?”

Sherlock growls.  “He was.  As vicious as you imagine.  Or should imagine but choose not to.  He taught me stick fighting when our parents were out, particularly postures on the stairwells.  Stop that grinning.”

“Oh, the door.  John?  I should --“

“It’s fine.  Hear his pace?  Full hands, but walking quickly.  He’s seen your coat this time.”

The door to the living room swings open and John enters, hands wrapped in strained carrier-bag handles.  “Hey,” he nods to Sherlock and Alex.

“Good morning,” Alex replies. 

“Smells good,” John mumbles as he walks into the kitchen.  “Oh, wow.  What’s that?”

“Crepes,” Alex says.  “We’ve been -- frying crepes.  With asparagus and cheddar, for you, though the asparagus isn’t boiled, yet.”  The artist has the impression his presence is depriving the newlyweds of something essential and excuses himself to the toilet.

John sets down the bags and meets Sherlock halfway in the living room for a kiss.

“An order of shopping is scheduled for tomorrow at one,” Sherlock says, peering at the bags with a smirk.  “Oh.”

“Just a few things, shampoo, some other -- just.  The one in the skull, almost -- gone, you know.  And socks.  Needed socks.  Thinner ones.  Uhm.  Some other stuff.”

“Mhm.” 

“What the -- fuck,” John hisses to himself as soon as his eyes flick over and settle on Alex’s ID cards.  He shakes a finger at them and growls,  “MOD.  I knew he was -- see, probably a fucking agent.  Working for your brother.  Hmm?”

“What would make you think that...oh.  That he would _befriend_ me, he’d _have_ to be working for my brother.”  That had come out too peevishly; Sherlock glances away.

“No, love.  No, didn’t mean that you -- no,” John shakes his head and withdraws.

“How fortunate.  By analogy, I suppose I’d have to wonder --“

“ _Hey_.  Just.  Sorry.  Okay.  But what _is_ this.” John raises his eyebrows.  “Hmm?  Who -- I mean.  How -- does he have that status, that's -- I mean.”

Sherlock sniffs.  “That.  Is my brother’s inability to separate work from work.”

“Hmm.  What.  Hey, now.  _Not_ your problem.” John folds his arms.  “What.”

_“John.”_

“Look, _not your problem_.  Is it.”  John’s eyes have gone dark with jealousy.  He leans forward and mouths in Sherlock’s ear, “Besides.  No harm having him on your side.  _Our_ side.”

“Side!” Sherlock hisses back.  “Side!”

“Let it happen,” John whispers, more warningly.  “It’s not our problem that Alex is shagging -- _bloody Vader_.”

“ _Not shagging_.  _Who_?”

“You’re a little too touchy about this.  Let him.  Distract the bastard for once.”

“There’s no such thing as _distracting_ my brother.  But there is such a thing --”

Alex emerges from the bathroom and glances down at the shopping bags as he steps around them all.  “Sherlock, chargrill the asparagus in olive oil and foil for up to six minutes with ground salt and pepper or steam them about five, partially submerged, standing if possible.  I’ll be off.”

“Don’t have to,” John attempts.

“No, that’s -- fine.  Ah, my cards.”  Alex passes John and picks up his IDs from the living room table.  “Yes, it’s incongruent, isn’t it,” he remarks, slipping them into his pocket and nodding at them both.

“I'll see you out, it’s locked,” John offers, and moves to follow Alex out of the room.  He precedes him on the stairs.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Alex says over his shoulder, and smiles with a small shrug.

“Take care,” Sherlock mumbles and stares down at a page in front of him.  He tosses his pencil aside and clamps his sketchbook shut.

“Was that -- a knock?” Alex asks John.

“Yeah, someone.”  John picks up his pace on the stairs in front of Alex.  “Watch your step, this one’s sort of -- uhm.  Yeah, someone’s there.”

John shoves his key in and throws open the front door.  On the step there is a shapeless, dusty, hare-lipped, bushy-browed and messily-clad man; his breath reeks of cheap wine.  The butt of an extinguished cigarette is still in his hand.  He is deeply distressed, shuffling with a nervous tick in his shoulder.  He has massive hands.  “Help you with something?” John asks, straightening and clearing his throat defensively.

“Mr. Sherlock.  I must to see and talk with him.” The man seems to want to push past Alex and John both but shuffles his weight side to side, instead.

“Oh, John, that’s.  Good afternoon, sir.  John, this gentleman works in a lapidary.   He's an acquaintance of Sherlock’s.”

“How do you  -- Jesus, does everyone I know -- have to deduce everything!"

“No.  By description, that's all.  He made the stone in your ring, if I'm not mistaken.  Sorry, my ride -- goodbye, John.  Sir.”

“God.  Sorry.  Uhm, come in.” John herds the unnerved Russian into the foyer and locks the door.

“Our Natasha,” Anatol howls, as soon as the door is closed behind him. 

Sherlock has already descended the stairs.  “She’s been found, dead.”

“You come, check.  I no trust police, they are at house.  Please, I pay!  Please, you come see place, please, Mr. Sherlock!” 


	44. Forewarned, forearmed

_Sheets - freshly laundered, just changed, unslept in.  Tucked.  Bio evidence.  Scent of bleach.  Cleaning needles.  Or.  Attempt at destroying DNA, semen.  By whom.  Ah.  Lover.  Client?  Maca bread and a near-empty glass of water by the bed.  Stomach flu.  No.  Pregnant, morning sickness, had lowered intake of drugs, ergo lower tolerance or the dealer -- the father -- no, not that one.  Shelves.  Dust rings.  Undusted.  The middle shelf, dust-free, used.  Books dusty.  Except.  Ah.  But empty, no cash.  Mm.  No cash.  A client, a last client?  Didn’t pay you?  Paid you...exactly enough to pay off the bills.  Bills paid off, unburdening -- parents.  Made up, pressure to return -- pressure.  To hide.  Someone.  Pressure -- a married man.  With a criminal background.  Or -- cautious.  No intention of -- mm.  DNA.  Hiding him.  Cleaning up after him.  Good.  Good prospective wife, cleaning up -- no.  Not leaving her, so you leave him.  Protecting him.  Why.  Who are you.  Who are.  You.  The bills.  Burden.  Unburdening yourself.  The family.  Why now._

“Where are her sheets.” 

Seemingly oblivious to the proximity of his feet to the body of the blond addict, Natasha, who is sprawled on the floor of her rented bedroom, Sherlock is darting around the place under the critical eye of Detective Inspector Dimmock.

“Sheets?  There’s some wash in the washroom, already done, dried --“

“ _Nnngh._   Where is Oleg?” Sherlock asks Anatol.

“He is at home.  Call him to come?" Anatol answers.

“No.  No.  He can’t smell this.  Address.”  Sherlock spins around.  “John.”

“Hmm?” John’s rounded eyes roll over to his slowly; he is deep in thought.

“See the maca.”

“Yeah.”

“A drastic step.”

“And ODing, so, maybe not purposeful.”

“Why OD when you’ve just changed your sheets and disinfected the floor by the bed.  She was an addict.  Here.  Where do people toss bio evidence after sex.  Something’s not right, here...mm.”

“Oh God.”

Sherlock picks up Natasha’s hands and sniffs them.  “She cleaned with bleach, even the silver ring is oxidised brown, see.  She wasn’t overly careful.  Ah.  A white spot on the cuff.  Splash.  Hell.  If I were a nose.  Can’t bring him here...mm.”

“Who.”

“The cousin, Oleg.  It could bring on a seizure.  But he’d smell it all.”

“He sniffs stuff, take some to him instead.”

“Mm.  As if I can take key evidence off a crime scene?  These days?  Tsk, tsk.”

“Sorry, love.  Just.”

“We’re done.”  Sherlock takes Anatol aside by the arm and starts speaking Russian.  Dimmock’s mouth drops open.  “Damn, we could use that sometimes, sheeez,” he grunts.

Anatol nods at something animatedly.

“What was that?” John asks quietly.

“I told him who I think she OD’d over.  And why.  There’s more of his DNA in the room, I just saw it.  The  father will take the rest into his own hands,” Sherlock hisses.

“Hey, you can’t.”

“No?  Who asked me here.”

John bites the inside of his cheek and looks down at the girl again.  “Weird how she’s not in bed.”

Sherlock’s eyes light up.  “Oh, John.  Because she took the injection while he was still in the room.  He left and came back.  Left in the morning before she got up.  She cleans up...see?”

“Look, maybe she vomited in bed?  On the floor?”

“No, her nightclothes are folded on the bed.”  Sherlock shrugs and looks away. 

Dimmock saunters over.  “Anything you can add?  Good to see you, by the way.  Been ages.  Congratulations, uh.”

“Thanks,” John fills in.

“Read in the Guardian, there was a -- sorry.  Article.  Anything?  Who called you in?”

Sherlock ignores that.  “Overdose, suicidal.  She was pregnant.  Nothing an autopsy won’t tell you.”  He steps away and walks straight out the door.

“Wait, hey --“

“Uhm.  Sorry.” John tries to smile at Dimmock apologetically, grimaces instead, and turns to follow Sherlock, who has swished out of the room in a swirl of dark wool.  He soon finds Anatol and Sherlock huddling over a cigarette lighter and pulling smokes outdoors.  They are jabbering in Russian to one other man who it appears is the girl’s stepfather; John feels rather left out and pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through some emails.

“Kadi’s mobile,” Sherlock says to him.

“Huh?”  The sudden switch to English catches John off guard.

“Ms. Perkin’s mobile telephone number.  For Oleg.  Look, he just lost his cousin, for God’s sake, have a heart,” Sherlock flashes his teeth.  “The number to the ‘burning orange woman’, John.”

John reads the number with flared nostrils and glances at the impassive Anatol, who appears to have memorised it instantly.  “Hmm.”

“Oleg make for her something,” Anatol says.  “I don’t know who is this woman but he is crazy with her in his head.  Crazy.  Even when we are calling for you.  He asks about this woman.”

John’s eyes flick to Sherlock’s.  _“ll est fou,”_ * he growls, not in the least because he is sick of not understanding what’s going on. 

“John, I’m taking something to Oleg to sniff.”

“What -- you lifted something?”

“Lifted.  Well.”  Sherlock smiles distractedly.  “I’ll see you at home.”  He lowers his voice conspiratorially.  “I love you.”

“Wh -- at -- I -- love you, too.”

“Well done.”

“What -- I solved it?”

“No, you distracted Dimmock brilliantly.”

____________________

* _French text:_

_\- He is insane._

***

John doesn't feel any more useful to anyone's case until he is back at work again, the next morning.

His Slovakian patient’s wife has brought him some jars of homemade conserves and is cautiously asking for a prescription of sleeping pills; she is anxious about an upcoming change, as she explains.  John politely maneuvers her away from the subject of the pills, and gives her a thorough check up. 

Her only son, she moans, who is thirty-three years old (also one of John’s patients) wants to move back to Bratislava and look for a wife; she is devastated.  “We gave him life in England, and our house,” she explains, tearfully.  “We moved to London where we hardly make any living now to give him our small house.  And he is hiring it to people and now selling it.”

“Ah,” John nods. 

“He wants to go back to Slovakia which he has not seen since he was six years old.  And he says, ‘mother, you come with me, you will raise children and we will live all together, don’t you worry about anything, anymore’.  What will I do?  What, Doctor?”

“Wow.  So.  Uhm, your husband is -- upset, too?”  John winces and looks away.  _I’m no bloody psychologist_.

“No, no!  He says, we go!  We go back!  It’s free democracy, they have Euro currency, it is better now.  It is what he was fighting for in those times.  And we will leave all behind in England, and go back to our old city.”

The lady nods to herself and sits in silence.  John shrugs.

“Sort of stressful.  A change like that.  But -- exciting.  Wherever you are, family is most important, right?” he ventures.  “Let’s check your blood pressure again, you’re looking a bit better, now.  Your arm?”

“So we have problems only with the house, but maybe somebody will like to buy it.  We don’t know how long we wait for that.”

“Hm.  That’s true.  Whereabouts is it?  Outside London, then?  There.  Could you just roll up your sleeve more?  There, good.”

“Jozef had, you know, his bees for fifteen years there.  You know it was good air by sea.”

John licks his lips.  “Uh -- y -- eah.  Right.  We won’t talk for a bit.  Relax, there.”  He pumps the rubber bulb of the blood pressure cuff and furrows his brow.   “So.  Just a moment.  Hmm, one thirty-five over eighty-five.  Pre-hypertension.”

“Because.  I am nervous.  Our son hired it to people.  But it is small and probably nobody will want.  You see, why should we go to Slovakia!  It is crazy!” 

“You know, I might have some questions about your house.”

“For you?  Or someone you know?” the lady asks, brightening perceptibly.

“For me, actually, _I’d_ like to look at it.”

“Absolutely yes, Doctor Watson.  Do you have something to write?”

“Yes, right here.”

“I will give you my son’s mobile number.”

***

Alex is visiting Mycroft at home for a rather late afternoon tea (a breather, though it is anything but relaxing to Alex to be asked there so off-handedly) before they plan to continue a longer chat about the Baltic States over supper in town.  Though he has not been given a tour by any means, Alex has already taken in enough from the dining room and adjacent parlour, where they are now, to see that his friend clings to a certain ritual and lore.  His family’s estate seems, at first glance, to house several more people.  It is difficult to pinpoint exactly why -- but one could start from the number of chairs, which outnumber the solitary man by nine.  Or the sets of crystal arranged in a sideboard, for parties, though he probably never holds them.  The paintings, some possibly his own though he doesn’t seem in the mood to refer to them, appear to have been chosen by a few people with clashing tastes whose only compromise had ever been reached in hanging them all together in a jumble of frames.   _That_ wall is poorly lit.  There are no photographs or personal objects anywhere (quite in contrast to the fascinating clutter at Baker Street), giving the place an air of a hired space, for filming, for instance. 

It is all very traditional, very much in the style of his own club (this silent, empty home had inspired its austere but elegant decor, clearly) though Alex cannot imagine the bohemian soul of Sherlock _here_ , nor feel it anywhere.  He almost wants to ask to go somewhere else, perhaps to sit in the kitchen, and Mycroft seems aware of it.  Alex shifts a bit against the settee he is sitting in; it doesn’t agree with his back at all, though objectively speaking it is pretty, and matches two armchairs which form part of a tight semi-circle around a black-marble-topped mahogany table.  The only drawback of said table, besides its visual heaviness, is that it interferes with one’s quick approach to the hearth.  And one’s ability to ever make love on the floor, Alex thinks with a quirk of the lips before looking away from Mycroft's temptingly plush, dark green Persian carpet, one of the only soft and inviting things in the entire place.  On top of the dark table, there is a silver tea service, more ornate than the one at the _Diogenes_.  Its presence indicates he'd called someone ahead and that they are not entirely alone in the house, though nobody has shown themselves to ask after them.  Mycroft is looking at him carefully as he makes all of these assumptions; he raises a brow and stands.  He tells Alex he has news as he crosses the room to where he has left his briefcase on a carved table; Alex shivers at the unknown and tries to compose himself even as Mycroft returns and hands him a memorandum concerning the auction at Sotheby’s; people in the know have begun putting in their bids already on an array of charity-dedicated items, he explains.

“As of three this afternoon,” he adds.

“The auction, then.  Yes, I’d meant to ask.  Where is it...oh!  Eleven thousand three hundred, already?  That’s _wonderful_.”  Alex sets the paper on the table and puts out an arm to run a chilly hand over Mycroft’s, who looks startled.  “We’re doing shockingly well.” 

“Quite literally --”

“Yes, I know.  Thank you for the chance to be part of it.” 

“Oh, no.  I meant something else.  You won’t breathe a word of this.  It concerns a glutton’s penance,” Mycroft says, in a rather moralising tone, as he stands by and stares down at the fireplace.  “You see, a certain Franciscan book illuminator, Father Matthew, fell ill with salmonella poisoning.   _Cream puffs_.  To his credit, he’d held off from them for days.  And gave in once they’d spoiled thoroughly enough to do him serious harm."  Mycroft sniffs primly to himself and reaches down for his teacup as he seats himself next to Alex, slightly closer than before.

Alex closes his mouth (open in confusion and the beginnings of an unformed word or two) and picks up his own tiny cup and drains the rest of the tea in it, gently waving in refusal as he sets the cup aside.  “And...?”

“It occurred two days before the deadline for the book-binder’s.  So I finished the calligraphy myself; the Family would have disapproved, had the book not been introduced for sale on time.  The work of a certain portraitist has stayed in their minds.”

Alex’s eyes widen almost childishly.  “Did you!  You!  It was lovely, I might have demanded to keep it if I’d known.  When on earth did you do it?”

“During a timely bout of insomnia.” Mycroft almost smiles.  “Mind-numbing by the second _word_ but even after eleven fatuous poems about happy childhoods I still couldn’t drop off.”

“What!  You.  You’d got insomnia over something?”

“Perhaps someone.”

Alex misses the allusion and turns to face Mycroft, remarking, as he tries to right his aching spine, “You might have called.  I’d have helped you.  Bored you to sleep.  You’ll call next time you want me to bore you in the night -- this is _not going well_.  Sorry. Silence me, absolutely.”  His pale blue, dilated eyes make him even _less_ resistible.

Yet Mycroft finds himself unable to move.  “Shall I try?” he asks, mainly to himself.

“Honestly, it’s your best option, Mycroft.  But I’m a hopeless case.  Randall will tell you the same.”

“Randall tells me something else entirely.  And I’m convinced that your absolute silence would alarm me.”

In only a matter of months, Mycroft will have positive proof that _it does_.  For now, the ignorance that pairs so gamely with bliss allows forgetfulness.  Just enough of it to matter.  Finally he moves closer.  And he smiles (the reflex still hurts his cheeks) as Alex suddenly leans his head right against his shoulder and then daringly kisses his earlobe.  “Would it really,” the artist says.  _“Ginger kitty?”_

 _That -- is appalling_ , Mycroft thinks, yet he knows it could be far worse.“Was there mention of silence?” 

“It _worked_ , then.”  Alex laughs, his breath warm against Mycroft’s cheek.  “Now silence me, if you can,” he says, when their eyes meet, close.

“Be aware that I plan to fail miserably.”

“Forewarned, forearmed,” Alex replies, and seemingly for good measure (though involuntarily, in fact) he hums into their first longer, more searching kiss, which he has just enough cognition to deem as _nothing_ like the only ones they’d managed to share in Biarritz, just inside a hotel room door, before they’d parted ways both nights, or even those in the car -- 

Mycroft has pulled away.  He looks _upset_.  “Forewarned, forearmed.  Indeed.”  Something in that seems to have set him off.  “Yours tend to betray you.  Mine tend to go mad.  How shall it be,” he asks, flatly.

“Wh -- what -- ?  Oh.  Well.”  Alex takes a deep breath and stares at the gleaming teapot for inspiration.  “So.  You’ll be honest with me.”

“And you’ll always say goodbye properly.  If you are able,” Mycroft tells him, as if it were an order.

“Ah...sorry?”Alex sits back.  “What are you _suggesting.”_

“Apologies.  I think in terms of contingencies.”

Alex sighs.  “I know you do.  Well.  I can give you _now_.  As much _now_ as you want, and really, what else do we have?  Nobody knows how much time we have.  Even _your_ masterful contingency planning is quite useless there, I’m afraid.”  Alex stretches an arm across the back of the settee, behind Mycroft’s shoulders.  “I don't care for goodbyes, much.  Mycroft, don’t look so cross.  You were just in the middle of failing miserably, as though you wanted nothing more.”

Mycroft’s stare softens.  “True.”

“Carry on.  Your utter failure was -- imminent.”  Alex smiles then, and it is easy to capture his mouth in an unapologetic -- even grateful kiss, one which is suddenly all about _now_ \-- though _now_ feels the least possible of all.  And rather worrisome.  But not to Alex, who is beginning to understand that the elder Holmes’ reserve has again been due to intensity of feeling and not the lack thereof.  To Mycroft, it is still far too much to take in.  He can’t recall reacting so irrationally around anyone, at least not in many, many years, and never for so long as to seem _constant_.  Sherlock’s chaotic decisions regarding John are beginning to make just a bit more sense:  not his many wholly-inexcusable behaviours, but the precarious lack of reason _behind_ them.  Mycroft considers the folly in his own covetousness, for instance, as he imagines that these are not _his_ fingers unbuttoning the artist’s jacket and tracing suggestively over the first closed button of Alex’s robin’s-eggshell-blue shirt, but someone else’s, _who is unworthy of this headstrong survivor_.  He freezes -- he doesn’t warrant such privilege, either.  He lets his hand drop.  “I’m treading --” he starts to remark, and shakes his head.   _Eggshells._

“Mycroft,” Alex says, running his fingers over Mycroft’s hair just at his left ear.  “You can see it, all nine and a half inches of it.”  He starts chuckling and finally leans further away, shaking with laughter.  He swallows nervously.  In another second or two Mycroft comes round and smiles a little, too.  “Hospital humour, it's horrid, I know.  But we have to -- it’s -- fine,” the artist adds.  It’s far easier after that to lean over and pull open several buttons, consider the significance of a certain (uncertain) morning in early January, and kiss the man until he is whining softly and carefully pulling Mycroft’s heavy silk tie loose for him.


	45. It wasn't hyperbole

One good turn deserves another and Alex insists that the elder Holmes should visit him, as well. Had Sherlock got wind of that he'd have warned one if not both parties -- pertaining to the Thatcherian-era furnishings and rotary telephone and about inviting evil into a respectable home to one's own peril. Mycroft doesn't appear to mind the bizarre decor, perhaps out of a carefully repressed feeling of nostalgia. In reality, both cling to a certain era and atmosphere in the spaces they habit alone. Neither man seems interested in verbalising these details. Mycroft has all the deductions he can tolerate after forty seconds, and he is now looking down at the surface of Alex’s drawing table.  Under a watercolour of a beautiful black-haired woman trying on a knee-high boot (an older, unused illustration Alex had found earlier) he sees a study in pencil of himself -- with aspects of his own (severe) eyes, dated the twenty-first of March.  He darkens, nearly matching the peeved expression in the drawing.  “Ah.” 

“Oh.  It was after the ballet when I had a moment, and you were just across the room.  A quick study.”  The artist looks at Mycroft; he still appears to be tamping down a remark, so he steps away.  “Tea, perhaps.  Or would you care for something stronger?”

“Either.”

“I have a good cognac, I’ll open it.   Portraits.  Well.  I know.  They can feel like indictments, far more than photographs we don’t care for, which we attribute to a lack of reflex or the lens of a camera that -- doesn’t _see_ us.  Just records.  The -- sort of -- deliberateness behind a portrait can be disconcerting, because of the filter of the human eye and heart,” Alex explains.  He is convinced he’s mortally offended his own -- _what.  Friend_. 

“Deliberateness?  No,” Mycroft replies, still considering.  “Acuity.”

“I don’t actually know what it is,” Alex tells him, with a thoughtful expression ( _what are we?_ ).  “But naming it doesn’t change what it leads to, nor what the process means to me.”  He wanders away into the kitchen.  If that isn’t one of the least objective remarks Mycroft has had thrown his way, he will be damned.  Alex, who looks even more preoccupied suddenly, returns in several minutes with a glass of water and a beautiful, very old gilded snifter of excellent cognac in his hands.  “I don’t know how old it is now,” he says.  “At least thirty.  Well.  _Zum Wohl._ “

“Cheers.  Ah.  It’s a very good one.”

“St. Petersburg, then.  At eight?” Alex brushes a hand over Mycroft’s cheek and smiles at him; his eyes are troubled, however. 

“What is it, Alexander.”

“I’ll miss you.  The attacks.  So close to the airport and in the centre, near the Hermitage of all the nerve, it’s all so disturbing.”

“I don’t look forward to leaving, either.  However.  I've spoken to Sherlock, he's out of the clouds enough, you'll turn to him with any concerns you have while I'm away.  Andrea and Rodney are also at your disposal, you will not go out unaccompanied.”

"You don't have to --" Alex puts up his head. "There's no --"

“I worry, it frees both of us to work, what is your objection? What is it. Ask."

Alex swallows a sip of water. “You’ll tell me, when you need me, as a man?” 

That shouldn’t be as _alarming_ a question as it is; he has every reason to wonder.  Mycroft glances over at the table top again.  He sets the snifter aside.  “I wouldn’t please you tonight,” he says quietly, and slips his hand between Alex’s shoulder blades. 

Alex tastes Mycroft’s upper lip.  “When you already are,” he says.

Mycroft elects to cut it off.  “You wanted to show me something else?”

“Yeah.  I’ve finished four of the seven in the frieze, three are partially colourised.  You’ll help me choose which four go to the show another day but, you see, things are coming along, slowly but surely.  Any thoughts?”

Mycroft opens the folio, and clamps his mouth shut.  _Generous._   He picks up the next drawing.  And the next.  To his eye, it is glaringly obvious, not that he’d ever have expected it, but very carefully hidden in each picture there is a word, the same each time:  _Generous.  Generous.  Generous._   Alex is standing by, not entirely casually, waiting for criticism or remarks and imagining his tributes have still gone unseen.  So when Mycroft turns and studies him, as he does before deciding how best to take him apart by touch, he is surprised.  “Do you like them, then?” he tries to ask.  It is good to be held upright in his arms just afterwards.  Mycroft doesn't bother to comment but manages to express approbation with unconcealed fervour.  His kisses are almost violent.  “Why,” he asks as he releases Alex’s mouth.

“Well,” Alex gasps, grinning.  “I can’t really show anyone what you are.  To me.  Lord, I can hardly breathe.  But -- I wanted to show you and let them miss it, right under their noses in the middle of the Tate.”

“A gift.  For me.”

“Yeah.  For a man who has everything,” Alex says jokily.

“Yes,” Mycroft says.  

Alex melts inside.  “Really?”

“What shall I bring you from Venice of the North.”

“A thousand kisses.”

***

John is up at six, washing, humming, and grinning through the facial contortions of shaving; Sherlock ( _gorgeous creature_ ) sits up like a shot when he sees John dressed and smiling madly over him. 

“Nnno.  Where are you going?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. 

“South, love.  I’ll be back this afternoon, later on.  Text me.”

“By train?” Sherlock is on his feet, groggy, half-hard, staggering. 

“Yeah.” John slings a backpack over his shoulder, which Sherlock notes is suspiciously lightweight.

“Why.”

“Need to talk to someone and see something.”

_“I asked you a question.”_

“Going alone, for now.  Just.  Take it easy.  It’ll be good, I think, and I want to strike while the iron is hot, hmm?”

“Take the next train.”

“Love, I -- have an appointment?”

“ _Change_ it.”

“Why?”

“John.  It’s a surprise for me, clearly.  All the signs are there, you wear them on your sleeve like that checked _\-- pattern_.”

“Yeah, it is about you.  I wanted to see it on my own, though, first.”

_“John!”_

“Right.  All right.  Have a look at this.  Just an idea, love.  Just, okay, tell me what you think.”

John pulls a print-out of emailed photographs and a map from the backpack and hands them to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s breath catches.  “ _Oh_...”

“Looked like a nice area.  I’ve been sort of in touch with Jozef Kováč’s son.  You know Jozef.” 

“Mhmm --”  Sherlock has started rubbing one finger circularly over his thumb.

“It was his place, they’re probably moving back to Slovakia with their son.  It’ll be for sale, wanted to go down and have a look at it.  I don’t know if it’s anything like what you were showing me, before, but just to get an idea.  Remember?  You showed me something on a map.  But that was more westward and more inland, wasn’t it.  This is --“

“Yes, yes.  Eastbourne, East Sussex.” 

“Yeah.  So.  It’s not perfect, sort of with cow fields all around it.  Not much else.  Grass, mostly.  What, love.  What.  The house is microscopic actually, needs remodeling and a new roof.  Less than the size of this place.  Like, the one bedroom and a sitting room.  Largish kitchen, though.  A nice thing is there’s a sort of big sun room, glassed in, just off the kitchen, sort of a -- “

“ _Orangerie,_ John, five by five metres. _”_

“Yeah.  Big greenhouse thing.  It was actually for Maria’s plant collection and a mudroom coming in from the hives, I think.  It has a sort of back shed for keeping all the beekeeping stuff.  There aren’t any actual hives, though.  Here’s the garden.  Look.  I guess you can get hives, somewhere, or just build them yourself, I don’t know.  Probably some other beekeepers in the area, you can ask.  What!  Love, what.”

“You’re _remarkable_.  You are absolutely -- incandescently _brilliant_.  _Soldier_ ,” Sherlock says, eyes unnaturally keen, “you love me a little, don’t you!” he declares in a frankly maniacal voice, echoing John’s words before turning away and locking himself in the toilet. 

“Sher --“

“You will not go _a step_ toward that place without me!” Sherlock shouts through the door.  _“Not one!”_

“I have to unless I want to stand here and _listen to you take a leak!”_ John yells back and starts laughing helplessly as he shakes his head and wanders into the living room.

***

It isn’t until John sees Sherlock standing out in the middle of the property just over four hours later, motionless, face turned toward the Channel (they can smell it and feel it, even if they cannot quite see it), that he understands how much his phoenix wants silence like _that_.  He doesn’t even want to come inside to look around more, despite the wind.  John sits in the glassed-in room, and chats with his patient, the younger Kováč, who he sees has promisingly little sentiment toward the place at all and is more than ready to unburden himself of it.

“So, glad your arm is healing up so well, it was a pretty serious fall,” John says, and aims for a subtle bargaining mode, “Yeah, well, about this place.  I think we like the location all right.  The house needs a lot of work, though.  Not sure about that roof.  That’ll have to be....”

Just then, Sherlock returns to the house like a storm and turns his eyes to the man.  “I have the market value of this place in Euros and it’s to your advantage to keep it in an escrow account until it can be sent directly to a Slovakian affiliate bank once you’re there.  There’s no reason to convert it twice, we’ll meet a lawyer in London and draw up the papers on our own terms without involving an agency, meaning you won’t have to pay a commission fee.  Eighteen percent more money up front, do the math, I’ve checked a few listings, you’ll have capital to buy a two-family home in suburban Bratislava from the get-go.  Ring your father.”

“Excuse me, doctor.  Sure.  Let’s take a walk,” the son tells Sherlock, though his eyes are already lighting up.  He wants the deal sealed and out of his hair.  He dials the elder Kováč as they stride away to the front of the house.

Everything is happening at breakneck speed and yet it had been John’s own wild idea to come -- _oh, God -- could be all right.  So.  Hmm_.  He goes back indoors, looks around the place some more ( _panes still good_ _\-- access to a small attic -- shit --_ ) and tries to breathe.  There are three small fireplaces, which he likes very well, because they’d keep the air dry.  One is in the living room, another in the bedroom (very small, with a freestanding stove -- _warm our tea, naked nights year round, good_ , he thinks).  The third is a more industrial-looking stove in the glassed-in room (he finds himself drawn out there again -- the light, even today when it is overcast, is good for reading and he can see most of the property.  _Watch my phoenix from right here_.)  He seats himself on an old, velveteen chaise lounge, puts up his feet and thinks about that until he loses himself in a scene of a frot on blankets over a late outdoor breakfast.  _God, yes._

When the two men have returned, Sherlock is glowing.  He takes a pink-eared John for a walk out to the back edge of the property.  “I knew about this place.  Jozef told me about it.  Sentiment.  The bees.  John, I’ve looked at satellite maps of this very house."

"Yeah?"

"It’s quite extraordinary.   Isn’t it?  Yes.  To be standing here, now, knowing it is _ours_.” 

“It’s.  Ours?”

Sherlock leans down and rubs his nose in John’s hair.  “He’s accepted my offer and Jozef was keen to have payment in cash from a direct sale as well.  He said to tell you he’s very pleased his old place is going to you and me and not to strangers who won’t care for it.”

“That’s -- really -- nice.  Yeah.  Good.  Uhm.” 

“And when they move we’ll take on his flock of trained pigeons.”

“Huh?” 

“ _Very_ affectionate birds, I’ve seen them.  There are nine and they respond to Slovakian -- well.   We can meet in London with Lawrence and a notary regarding legal formalities with the title, the parents will need to appear.  Your presence should be enough to placate the hypochondriac mother who will otherwise interfere with a bout of psychosomatic breathing issues while we sign --”

“I can’t -- sort of catch up.”

“John.” 

“You _knew_ about this place?”

“A bit.  Yes.  It’s even more suitable than I’d constructed it in my mind.”

“Love.  I -- don’t --“

“What.”

“Are we, just, moving out here?”

“Problem?”

“Huh.  Hmm.  B -- “

“You _said_.  John.  It wasn’t hyperbole!  You said we might move out, whenever, and you’d go.  With me.  _Wherever_.”  Sherlock’s eyes are flying over John.

“Yeah.  Yeah, just need to -- love, you’re too fast for me, here.”

“But you’re _not_ having second thoughts, not my John.”

“Sher --“

“You _brought us_ here.”

“Nah.  No.  So, uhm.  Hah.  Bloody -- long grass.”

“Breathe, soldier.”

“Hmmm.  Sure.”

“The Channel’s very close.  Smell it.  The cliffs are visible just over that swell.  Chalk.  You can cycle to Eastbourne in under fifteen minutes at a good pace.  There are clinics in the area, and with your skill set any of them will take you on in a heartbeat.”

“Uhm.” 

“Perhaps I’ll -- drive you to work in poor weather, is it all right?  The proximity to the water?  John, _speak_.”

“You just went and bought a _house_.  Jesus.”

“ _We_.  It’s _ours_ , remember, we’re _married_.”

“Damned right we are.”

“In fact, the final word is yours, now.”

John glances over at the greenhouse.  “Hmm -- uhm.”


	46. When out of one's depth

Mycroft receives a secure intelligence and personal update when emerging from a tour of several vaults beneath the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, where his delegation had been shown the rooms in which conservators are restoring paintings; he will tell Alex about the canvases that have been under renovation for decades:  contested war spoils, in suspension. Not unlike many in the National Gallery in London.  Of course, the other work is more than brilliant, and he has made note of the concentrated pigments being used there.  The scent of balsamic spirits has its appeal as well, though he has no intention of ever returning to painting; it is settled, however -- his Alexander should have a box of those Russian watercolours, which are superior to his Dutch set (he is nearly out of both umbers and the light carmine), though not in lieu of any one of those thousand kisses.  In fact, Alexander should be taken to bed, he decides, simply, and steps into a light rain umbrella-less, to take in a view of the swarming Neva, which is a particular shade of blue he favours. _Sherlock’s visit to the Downs, address once associated with that Slovakian dissident who received asylum in 1986 after a five-year prison term on fabricated charges of conspiracy and libel, pigeon-whisperer of sorts and patient of John Watson’s, shared interest in apiary --_ thus Mycroft deduces relatively quickly why Alex, in his absence, has been photographed weeping in his kitchen, across the table from Sherlock (who had just handed him a pair of shoes -- dark green brogues from the Vilnius shoemaker and had shown his tongue toward the window before snapping the curtains shut).  He doesn’t have time for any more trivia while abroad but it will be anything but trivial to discuss what is most certainly his brother’s plan to move out of London with John.   _Messy._ He clamps his lips in annoyance as a guide approaches and reminds him he will catch cold standing outdoors without a hat.

***

“It’s usually pointed at the entrance to the building, and has been for years.  I’ve nothing to hide,” Alex shrugs, regarding _big brother_ , who Sherlock sees has sucked all reason out of his head.  The artist seems to _miss_ Mycroft.

Sherlock scowls and hands over the dog-eared print-outs John had made.  “News for news.  Remind me, where have you chosen to banish him?”

“He’s in Russia until tomorrow night,” Alex replies, just before realising that Sherlock is joking.

“Predictable.”  _Traveling.  Not predictable.  Mycroft has taken up first-hand involvement again.  Biarritz, Brussels, St. Petersburg, in less than one month.  Death angel will travel, Apocalypse, coming soon to this space.  Why. Why._

“Oh...I’m going to Edinburgh with him to a summit.  And I hope to see Sophie one of the evenings.  It appears -- she’s -- well.  She’s selling the cafe and staying on in Scotland.  She’s met someone.  And her sister needs her.  It appears I’m -- _I’m losing people_.” Alex’s voice cracks and he covers his nose with his hand.

“Alex, don’t.”

“It’s the weather, I woke up out of sorts, I’m sorry.  If you’ll be happier, of course it’s good news for you both.  But I can’t stand the idea of you, leaving London.  You _belong_ here.”

“In fact I do not.” Sherlock studies Alex’s reaction to that.  He doesn’t appear to know much.  “A fair amount of ink on your thumb...?”

“Come and have a look.  I’m inking in a series.  You can take a look at the watercolouring, it’s almost all dry brush but I’m out of one red, see.”    

They remove to Alex’s other room to look at the in-progress drawings on his desk.

“I approve,” Sherlock says, sighing heavily and rather too dramatically, “of the fact that my brother is opening certain doors for your illustrative talents.  It’s something I’ve wanted to see, though my own connections weren’t as useful in achieving that end.”

“They were, Sherlock.  Linz was an excellent experience.  There’ll be a book, possibly, did I tell you?  And some sketches for the _Spectator_ in June?” 

“Mm.”  Sherlock picks up a large, cut-away drawing of a bourgeois industrialist eating, on scaffolding which is handheld by servants, over a complicated factory scene; figures at the sides with tiny saws have sliced a futuristic metal capsule open to reveal a sweatshop in which dozens of maimed workers are producing mountains of rubbish; others are pushing it out of the capsule in punts along a narrow canal with walls that look intestinal.  It is gruesome, Bosch-like, but drawn in the manner of a period engraving, which somehow beautifies the nightmarish subject.  It is stunning, though only one of seven.  “Neat.  Though what is...‘ _generous’_....” Sherlock mutters to himself, and looks at another picture.

“Not much in what you see, here,” Alex answers, and tries to keep his face blank.  He fails, but fortunately Sherlock isn’t focused on _him_.

“Obviously.  _There_ ,” Sherlock says, tapping a long, pale finger on Alex’s sketch of Mycroft as his lips curl up at the corners.

“Oh.  He was speaking to ambassadors and members of the extended Royal Family, waiting for a _communiqué_.”

“Apparently so,” Sherlock mutters to himself with a snort.

“He didn’t seem to care for that sketch, though.”

 _Because he looks completely unnerved._  “Mm.  Perhaps I’ll buy it from you, for my living room.”  _Brother dear, out of his depth._   _In a nice frame._

“Well.  I’m rather partial to that one.” 

“I assure you, so am I,” Sherlock replies sardonically and scoots the sketch aside.

Alex sees in it the concentrated expression he associates with Mycroft drawing close for a kiss, but he is not about to admit that, and Sherlock will walk away from the drawing table without _that_ primer behind the next soft nosed bullet he fires his brother’s way.

“How is John?  I mean, as far as moving?  Where will he work?  Somewhere there, then?”

“Well.”

“Is he excited about it, too, though?”

“Alex.”

“Oh.  He’s got mixed feelings, or --”

“It was _his_ idea to go look at the place, and when I declared I’d elected to buy the house he...resisted.”

That is not entirely accurate.  John hadn’t resisted as much as drawn several consecutive blanks.  He’d done fine until they’d got in the train back to London; after an innocent remark from Sherlock about John needing to give notice at the clinic, John had gone into an attack, complete with sweats, and had shut himself in a train toilet for twenty minutes.  He’d got a horrendous headache, as well.  He'd refused to say a word about it, admitting before going to sleep that he feels _left out of another bloody important choice_.

“I see.  You had a serious argument regarding property recently.  As I understand.  Do you think he might be connecting the two?”

“Mm.”  Of course, Sherlock knows perfectly well that John _does_ connect the two.  For now, John has stated that he needs space and time to think, has waved and clenched his hands, and then shut his mouth on the subject completely.  Sherlock will feed him and wait, until he explodes into filaments -- and he swears he will.

***

“We married.  On the twelfth.  Uhm.  That was really.  After everything, a real moment.  For us.  Hmm.”

“Congratulations, John.  Now as far as anxiety, has anything changed since I saw you last?”

“I -- well, I stated things and initiated some conversations and, well, we do feel the same.  Some things have sort of cleared up.  I think I was doing better on that.”

John is gray in the face, seated across from Ella, arms crossed.  He is rubbing his knuckles against his ribs; he is wearing the charcoal woolen jumper with horn buttons that Sherlock had chosen for him just after a very hot and memorable shag in a fitting room but not because he plans to be seductive later on; there’s been a cold snap.  John still has stress headaches over what had happened in Eastbourne and needs to see some things more objectively.

“ _Was_ doing better, you said.  I understand that you feel there is another area that needs work.”

“Yeah.  We just married, so we have some shared rights of -- you know.  Property.  I’m thinking about moving.  Out of London, with him.  Just.  He needs some quiet.  And I found this.  Uhm.”

“Take your time.”

“So, a house.  In the countryside, sort of in a small town, pretty.  And I just wanted to look.  And he -- it’s not the first time, he jumped ahead and agreed with the owner, just.  Over my head, decided for us.  He wants to buy it.  That we’re moving there, fifty miles out of London, just.  And I’ve a got a life, you know.”

“What I hear is that you opened an issue and he made a decision that seemed more far-reaching than you’d planned?” Ella asked.  “Is that correct?”

“Oh, yeah.   I mean, I want to move out, but not -- sort of without getting to decide when.  He’d already be there if he could.  So I told him to let me think.  I -- uhm.  We’ll go.  We will.  But I need to wrap up so many things, here, I -- you know.  If your partner told you, ‘we’re moving...to...Leeds’.  Or somewhere.  You know.  You’d be like, my patients.  My.  Look, you know what patients are, it’s a certain -- uhm.”

“It’s all right, John.  To feel that way.”

“Sorry.  But I don’t feel right about all this.  Just suddenly, you know.  We just.  We just got married, so.  Jesus.” John rubs his mouth.

“Take a moment.”

“Hmm.”  John looks out the window and nods to himself.  “You know, I’ve never lived in a free standing house like that.  In the middle of bloody nowhere.  Cows, and.  You don’t have everything right there.  Like here, you have everything a cab drive away.  There, cows, some -- hmm.”

“Does the choice of location make you anxious.”

“No, but.  I don’t know how the small town will be, not sure I’ll like that.”

“Changes like house-moving can feel threatening.  Can you name any positive sides to moving out of London?”

“Yeah, sure.  That’s the only reason I’m not saying no.  I wanted to get Sherlock out of the city because he needs a quieter place.  So, his health.  We’ll be in a healthier place.  Nice.  It’s for him.  Actually.  He knows I want to help.  Actually, I just -- I think I know.  He probably thinks I should be happy because he’s doing what I want, ultimately.  I do want to get him out of the noise.  Damn it.”

“Aside from the health aspect, which is always important, can you name other positive features of the move?”

“Trying.  Uhm.  Give me a minute, I don’t know right now.”


	47. When love lies in choices

“There’s something I want from you, Mycroft.”  Alex sets his pencil and sketchbook aside on a small table and notes the ever-changing level of the amber spirits in the carafe near his arm.

Mycroft raises his eyes from his desktop for a second and does a double take; his brow furrows.  “Name it.”

“To review the security devices or have them removed from Sherlock’s and John’s living area.  Since they’re moving house.”

“Naturally, I have yet to establish the particulars of that move.  Those devices are an alternative to a sentence, as you know, and it is not my decision alone, but that of a committee consisting of seven people who are _not_ convinced they want to uphold said alternative.” Mycroft sniffs down at a photograph and slaps a folder shut over it.  “Eighteen more,” he hisses to himself, tapping his pen lightly against his desk.

“You’re the most influential of --”

“Don’t imagine flattery, of all things, would be of any worth, here.”

“It was a _request_ ,” Alex retorts instantly.  “Explain instead why it’s unfeasible.  The truth.”

“Naturally.  _What harm could come to pass from the truth?_ ” Mycroft growls.  

“I don’t tolerate rhetorical racket any more than you do.  A more substantive answer, please.” 

Mycroft tosses down the pen in his fingers and rises from his chair, white around the lips.

 _Lord, oh Lord, what have I done_.  Alex does not plan to back down, however.  Not yet. 

Mycroft approaches Alex close enough to lean forward and kiss him but his pupils are compressed pinpricks.  He is incensed. Being told his words are a ‘racket’ has pressed a button.  Or ten.  He intones, slowly, “When you know far too much.”

“Though not out of a need to scrutinize you or Sherlock,” Alex answers. 

“Even so, I will be forced to keep you.  Misery,” Mycroft mutters acerbically.

“That sounds far less like admiration,” the artist replies, “and more like ensnarement.  Though _whose_?”

Mycroft’s face clouds even more.  “So how _is_ it, then?”

Alex looks at him for a moment and then drops his eyes.  “We won’t carry on this way any longer, I can’t.  We won’t be cynical.”  Alex is about to fall apart.  “But please explain.” 

“ _That will do_.”

“Mycroft.”  Alex brushes a cold, trembling hand down Mycroft’s arm and squeezes his wrist.  “Something has gone terribly wrong -- you can hardly speak to one another.  I’m convinced Sherlock is suffering under the uncertainty of the arrangement.  He is physically ill over it.  Even I can see he’s not well.  He’s not.  I care, and I can’t watch it.”  Mycroft doesn’t pull his wrist away from Alex, but as soon as the artist tries to hold his hand, he drops it.  “Please.  If I’m to stand aside in silence, at least tell me why you feel I should agree to it.”

A tense moment, rather long to stay frozen so close, seems to drop off into more neutral space as Mycroft takes a deeper breath and raises his chin, in preparation for a carefully-calculated move.   _Whose ensnarement, indeed._  “Alexander.  Despite appearances, he and I share a concern,” he begins, his voice strained but low; he is still so near that Alex feels every word on his face.  It’s no longer for intimidation, however; that had been a front, though a daunting one. 

“What is it.”

“In the form of a missing memory card, the size of your thumbnail, recording a feed from one of three cameras.  Whereby it contains a film of the _incident_ which has led to the current state of affairs.  All attempts to locate it have failed from hour one.  The person Sherlock and I believe responsible was found hanged last spring.  It means ruin, should a copy ever surface, and I believe one may.  And the consequences, if Sherlock is working for the police in any capacity, are unimaginable."

"Oh." 

"You know relatively little about his career, but infer based on the fact that in some months he contributed to solving as many as twenty-two percent of _all_ major criminal cases in London and its environs.”

“But I don’t want to know what he did in the film.”

“You do not.” 

“How do you know what’s on it?”

“As I’ve already implied, I _have_ the other two cards,” Mycroft says more edgily.  “And I was there, as was John.”  He rubs his forehead and exhales.  “After the matter of the hanging, I gave Sherlock a choice -- MI6 under a new identity, or step down on _my_  terms.  He chose the latter and then foolishly brought John, of all people, right back into the middle of it, by establishing a romantic attachment to him.  Knowing how messy it would be.”

“They’re deeply in love _._   One doesn’t exactly choose.”  Alex recalls a debate on this subject with Sherlock about choice in love; they will never see eye to eye on that bit, he knows.

“One most certainly _does choose_.  But John, it appears, can be trusted under pressure after all, and _should_ the film turn up, I am now convinced he will stay by.” 

Alex looks at him very searchingly.  “You tested John’s loyalty to Sherlock?”

“Naturally, many times.”

Alex gulps down his distaste and fixes his eyes straight ahead again.

Mycroft dismisses that and starts summarising, more quickly.  “He doesn’t know about the missing card, or the hanging.  May he never know.  Their marriage is auspicious, Sherlock is relatively calm, I don’t see what more can be done.”

“If the film appears?  Is he -- going to be -- ”

“An elaborate insanity plea will keep him out of the prisons, don’t worry your head over it.” 

“But the fact of the monitoring in their home, Mycroft.  Why should a staff of people have the chance.  It’s as if someone wants to catch him doing something wrong and -- and don’t expect me to accept it, _ever_.  Particularly if _you_ want to uphold it.  It’s about honour,” Alex says, and pets Mycroft’s shoulder lightly.

“I don’t expect it of you, and it’s irrelevant to the committee whether you accept it or not, isn't it.”

“Never appease them by sending him anywhere away from John or upholding the surveillance if you can stop it.  You mustn’t allow the members to make Sherlock a bargaining chip -- In exchange for leverage in another matter, at your hand.  I believe that’s what’s happened, and if so, it’s deplorable, you should reconsider what you’ve done.”

"Don’t imagine you’ll maneuver me in any matter of such importance,” Mycroft says, more menacingly. 

“Say again?”

“Your charms are not useful, here, particularly in issues relating to my brother.”

“Charms --”

“And I am aware of your weakness for him.”

“Weakness! Friendship is not a weakness.  I should hope you agree,” Alex counters.

“Alexander.”

“Since you’ve just claimed love is a choice!”

Mycroft would be advised to soften his stance, but he is too aggravated, now.  He shakes his head and his lips narrow in a cynical grimace.  “It is.  What _._ What _is it!  Say it._ ”

“When love lies in choices, then in the ones made by the greatest of men.  Mycroft.” 

 _Yours,_  thinks the elder Holmes.  It is a challenge, and a very uncomfortable one.  Alex doesn’t know what reaction to expect, but he really needs to sit down.  He holds firm for long enough that Mycroft’s face seems to darken, shimmer and break up; he takes a step to the side.  

Mycroft already knows he has gone too far and he has the artist in his arms so quickly it shocks Alex back.  The reflexes of the former master of épée remain sharp.  The reflexes of the lover are far rustier, and Mycroft hisses, “What is this.” 

Alex flinches and turns his head away.

 _Angels do not exist; we would be obliged to warn them off.  A sick and unjust world.  Uncontainable sickness._    _In this sick world.  A little dove._   “Shall I call for assistance?”

“Absolutely not,” Alex says, as he loses his composure.  “I’m tired,” he chokes.  “I can’t argue.  We won’t, kitty.”

"No."  Mycroft steps away.  “Where, to rest.  Choose.” 

“Home.”

“No.  I meant with me.”  Mycroft glances away impatiently, pulls a linen handkerchief from his pocket and shakes his head.  “Abroad.”

“Your -- oh, thank you.”  Alex wipes his eyes with Mycroft’s kerchief.  “I can’t _stop this_.”

“I’m aware.”  Mycroft grits his teeth.  “Davos, St. Moritz and Zermatt are too high for you, now, you’ll need to improve your lung capacity first, with a physical therapist.”

The artist puts his head against his neck.  It startles Mycroft that anyone would bury his face so close to his for comfort, especially after pointing out that he is a complete disappointment as a brother (and proving to them both that he is an absolute arsehole, well below par at the friendship bit, perhaps a hopeless cause as a lover), but this one does.

“Alexander.  Are you listening?  Perhaps Lucerne, Bern, Lake Constance?” he asks, petting Alex’s greying head.  Something which should be inconceivable has just occurred to Mycroft:   _the catalyst, the ill one.  Little dove.  Little dove.  What is it?_

“Mmm.  How did you know.  I’ve always wanted to see Lake Constance.  Someday.  But what’s the matter?” Alex asks, breaking seamlessly into his thoughts, as he does, now, on occasion. 

“I wish I knew.  Will you accept a kiss before you go?” Mycroft asks.  _Little dove._

“Yes, always.  Or.  Come home with me,” Alex whispers.  “Hold me for a while, tonight.”

“Not the best idea.” Mycroft blinks.  _Syria._

An isolated piece of intelligence that had passed Mycroft’s way several days before will give him no rest, now.  _Something is coming.  Little dove._ He elects  to put those thoughts aside, for now, and wait for more signals, more evidence.  

“It _isn’t_?”

“Alexander.  I meant that we’ll go to my house.”

“Well, I’d planned to --“

“Turn in early.”  Mycroft moves away, picks up a file and opens it.  “You’ll stay until you feel better, whenever that is.”

“I have --” 

“Someone will bring along your medications.  Is that your only objection?”

“Yeah...Sherlock has a -- or.  No.  No.  Here, we’ll give --“

“Keys?  Really.”  Mycroft sighs as if they brought nothing but tedium to the universe.  “Not long, now.  Sit and compose yourself.  Ah.  Burma, the Rohingya have moved against the Buddhists but the tactics are unusual, far more akin to those used by a certain Pakistani who has taken to freelancing and advises attacks on Kurdish civilians in Iraq, among other -- ah.  Ah.  We will watch a certain trade route in the Gulf of Bengal this week.  How the heroin flows, for one, in payment, you’d never imagine to whom.”

***

“Coriander.”

“Right, well.  It’s -- really good, love.  Thanks.  Look.  Can we talk?  Or.”  John scrapes at the last of an impressive chowder, served with garlic toasts and whiskey cheddar, and licks at his spoon with a clearing of the throat.   _Peppery._

“Yes?”  Sherlock has wolfed down his small portion and is tinkering with a broken alarm clock where a battery has leaked acid and corroded the insides.  He tries not to leap across the table top and shake John by the shoulders for any halting syllable of doubt that he is about to hear.   _Soldier!_

“So.  I’ve been doing some looking into things.  I should give, like, at least a months’ notice.  In theory, two.  So I talked to a lady at HR and they don’t really _transfer_ per say, right?  That’s not how they work.  I said I might want to work in the East Sussex NHS system instead, but right now they’re not taking on anyone, wrong time.  I made two other calls but I’d really need to go down there and look around.  There are several specialised clinics and a hospital, I’d need to do that in person.  It’s not enough to drop a link to the blog, or.  You know, I don’t like that you’ve gone off and sort of galloped ahead with this house.”

“It was your --“

“Idea.  Yeah.  Idea.  We could look some more.  Maybe closer to Brighton?  Hastings, or.”

“It’s ideal.  There’s no need to look further if _Jozef’s_ is available -- I want _that_ one.”

“Heh.  Nothing else would compare, then.  Well.  It needs a roof, for one.”

“And roofing is in _short supply_ , John.”

“Sherlock....”

“The area.  The cliffs.  When you walk less than eight minutes down the road, there’s an outlook.  A postcard-type view, John.”

“You really want that.  That place.” 

“That place.  Yes.”

John _knows_ Sherlock does.  He still can’t believe his -- ( _luck?_   _yup_ ) that he’d gone to look at a house Sherlock had already pined after, as an idea.  For them.  When he looks at it more objectively, it seems impossible.  Coincidences like that don’t come along, often.  _Then again, neither do such bloody massive changes.  Jesus._   He rubs his chin.   _I’m overdoing this.  We’ll be all right.  He wants this.  Needs.  This.  Shit..._

Sherlock looks like he is about to crawl out of his own skin with anticipation.  “Yes!  That place!  John.  And I plan to ensure that you do not regret it.”

“Going to make it worth my while, then.”  John folds his arms and rolls his lips between his teeth.

“Mm.”  Sherlock drags his ( _damned impossibly hot_ ) eyes over John and nods.

“Start now,” John suggests. 

Sherlock frowns a little.

“No, love.  I’m saying -- I’m saying, yes.  We’ll make it work.  I love you, and we’ll do it, just -- _uff!_ ”

John has a lapful and two armfuls of randy husband in a flapping dressing gown before he can push aside his bowl, which skids precariously toward the other edge of the table.  “John.  It will be _brilliant_.  Mmmmm.  I knew you’d agree.  The _orangerie_ , John.  You liked it -- mmm.”

“Celebrate?” John asks, licking his lips.  He will save the news for another day, about the deep, freestanding, black bathtub he’s seen online, with stylised dragon feet (insanely cool in the photographs, but needing a certain well-hung, pale phoenix body luxuriating in it to complete the scene he has in mind).  But he knows he’ll buy the damned thing; it’s currently backordered for about ten weeks so it might work out just right, timing-wise.  “Oh, hey.  Hmm -- bed, yeah,” John grunts, as Sherlock starts in on his shirt buttons.  The well-hung, pale phoenix body has been waiting for this three days.  Three and a half, technically.  John feels warm and full (his stomach as well, which helps).  They don’t get far, at first.  Sherlock has John pinned to the hallway wall in a second, by the lips.  Sherlock’s arms are shaking with tension.  He is excited, nervous and relieved all at once and it rushes through them both.  _John, my John_.  He releases his soldier’s mouth and they pad more toward the bedroom, bumping at the hip, holding each other as they go, interrupting the way with a few more noisy kisses.  John is keen; walking is not a priority; he’d go down to the floor in a heartbeat.  In his head, he is halfway through a wall fuck in an alleyway, rain dripping over his shoulders -- “Oh, God -- Sher -- “

Sherlock seems to feel that John is ready for something more, _now_.  He pushes John down on the bed and climbs onto him, lifting his head to tilt it up for a suffocating kiss.  His hips are already grinding into John’s thigh.  John disengages one of his legs and wraps it behind Sherlock’s knees, urging him to do it more.  A jolting rhythm is smoothing into longer, deeper, kisses.  And John is melting, groaning, pushing off Sherlock’s dressing gown and tugging at his shirt.  Sherlock wiggles away from him and opens his jeans for him.  “Yeah,” John grins down at him.  “You gorgeous thing.  Know what I’m -- thinking -- about?  Oh, God, yes -- yeeeeh -- hmmm, love.  You and me, remember.  Russian girl, the one, hnnn, good, you always suck me so good -- remember -- after you -- we were in a -- rain, brought her to that stone cutter’s?”  Sherlock hums affirmation of various sorts against John’s cock as it slips back in his throat.  The sound ripples like a shock through John’s sac.  He licks and sucks as John’s eyes go heavy and roll toward the ceiling.  “Hhhhnnn.  And we, remember, no bus.  No cab.  We -- were between buildings, in an -- alleyway, I wanted you -- bad -- ah -- ahhh, yeah -- ahhhh, love -- I wanted -- take you and suck you right there and -- take it all off and let you -- God, we -- should -- fuck outside.  We’ll -- outside, love -- we’ll -- oh -- Jesus, good -- _hmmmm_ \-- mm, Sherlock.  Your mouth -- need to -- come -- oh, _Christ_ \-- fuck in the -- fuck -- grass -- love, there, can’t we -- when it’s s -- s -- soooo good -- warm, outside -- I was -- wanting to fuck you in the grass -- just --“

Sherlock pulls his mouth away from John’s cock and kneads the head in his quick fingers and murmurs, his voice treacle -- sticky, dark and _sweet_ \-- “Then you _will_.”

“ _Ahhhh_ \-- !”  John bucks and comes in Sherlock’s hand.

John means to finger Sherlock but a few licks are enough; his phoenix can’t hold back anymore -- his hips stutter up as his teeth clench and he bursts and throbs, hot in John’s mouth.  Mostly.  John laughs to himself and wipes his lips.  “You, you beautiful thing,” he wheezes, and smiles over at his friend, who is now a wreck of useless limbs and sweaty curls, though a very relaxed wreck, lying at a bizarre angle against a pillow and smiling right back down at his -- husband.  John grins.  “Can’t ever wait.  That’s how it is, you know?”

“If it’s -- ahmmm, John, faster, to what we’re -- no, can’t think.”  Sherlock sighs and attempts a brief reorganisation of his sentence. 

“Huh?”

“Why should I put off what we want, John?”

“Because --“  _And there it is.  That’s so you, you mad creature._ “I wanted to have a choice in it.”

“You did.  You always do.”

John tends to think like Alex, though he’ll never realise it:  to love a Holmes brother means not feeling _choice_ as much as feeling _chosen_.  If anything, the art of _finding_ areas of choice matters, in the game of survival, when keeping in stride with such minds.

_John agreed regarding Eastbourne.  SH_

_Where are you?  SH_

_OK?  SH_

_Good!  I’m OK, see you tomorrow :))) Alex_

***

When Alex and Mycroft arrive in the evening at Mycroft’s home, they stand in the living room for a moment.  Mycroft gazes over at the fire in the fireplace.  “You don’t care for my furniture,” he remarks, mid-strategy.

“It’s beautiful.  But an orthopaedic liability in the making,” Alex admits.

“Interesting,” Mycroft mutters.  “Well.”  He freezes.  “Ah-hm.”

“Yes?” 

“You’ll choose a place for yourself, then, to rest.”

Mycroft, who has been watching Alex with what seems to the artist to be increased alertness since his return from Russia, is now frowning.  Alex decides to be direct (as though he could hide any nuances of his intentions, anyhow) and deal with the rejection as it comes.  Should it.  “Wherever you’ll be.” 

Mycroft swallows.  “Mine?”

“Yours.”

“Fine.”  They ascend a split staircase side by side.  “Mine?  Are you sure?” Mycroft asks at the door to his bedroom.

“Of course,” Alex smiles to himself.

The next such instance of hesitation, if it is actually that, occurs shortly afterward, as the two men understand that they might undress but are instead calculating how much one should, at once, for the pretenses of _resting_ , when approaching a beautiful, tall, oak-framed bed (each craving the other but concerned that _the other_ wants far less).  When Mycroft has plucked off his watch and chain, jacket, waistcoat, tie, and belt, has set aside a pocketbook and has finally started on his own shirt, Alex shucks off his jacket.  “One thing.”  He lays the jacket aside on a nearby chair and guides Mycroft mid-button down on the bed next to him; they turn and face each other with unhinged expressions on their faces.  Alex begins unbuttoning the trim blue cardigan that he is wearing over his own Oxford shirt.  His rather dark sense of humour does not fail him.  “Do you know what I’m thinking about?” he begins.

Mycroft looks him over broodingly and remarks, “Arrhythmia.  Mainly.”

“Quite right.  Would you recognise the difference between ecstasy and syncope, I wonder?”  Alex asks in a casual voice, leaning over, brushing against Mycroft’s arm and dropping the cardigan among the other clothes, accumulating on a large, low bureau at the foot of the bed. 

“Of course.”  A more openly-amused expression passes through Mycroft’s features, now.  “And if I can’t help you, the cook is a retired cardiac nurse.  She’s down basting...poultry.  For tomorrow’s brunch.”

“Is she.”  Alex starts chuckling and reclines on Mycroft’s bed.  “I am ridiculously fortunate.”  Alex dabs at the damp corners of his eyes and sighs, before laughing some more.  “Really.  That is one of the dearest things ever.  And I thought you were actually analysing those reports.”

“I was. Actually.”

“Yeah.  So come over here, would you.  I’m trying to rest.” Alex reaches out for Mycroft’s arm. 

With all the invitations in that exchange swarming his head, Mycroft removes the knots from his cuffs and glances over, noting the engaging posture of the artist, whose _ingénue_ smile is anything but; he concludes after a second that the time for parameter drawing is definitively over.  It had ended in increments, the last light year regarding the fatal microchip.   _The new is the well-forgotten old, yet what does it matter._   Nothing is as threatening, now.  Once they are nearly face to face, propped up at the shoulder by a large pillow, Alex simply bows his head down to be petted, as if this were a regular ritual of theirs, and leans into Mycroft’s chest to kiss him just below the collarbone.  When they are more settled and fitted against each other, and as Mycroft quietly considers the heaviness between his legs, Alex finishes unbuttoning Mycroft’s shirt so he can get even closer and put in a hand.  The man’s heart is hammering like mad, he notices.  He kisses a tuft of the dark ginger hair on Mycroft’s chest and smiles blissfully.  Soon, he sighs and boldly wraps an arm around him to rub his lower back with the flat of his palm.  “Mm.  You run, don’t you.”

“Yes, well.  In the way of the great...hamsters.”  Mycroft looks away and tries to fight back a sudden smile on his lips.

Alex starts tittering again, oblivious to all the trains of thought occurring next to him, many dark, indeed; finally, he tips his head back for a kiss, and pulls Mycroft on top of him encouragingly as he climbs over him, avoiding the chest markedly, to better have his mouth to enjoy.  Alex reaches for his nape and brings him down harder; he is letting his lips be parted and his mouth caressed and tongued; he moans and responds by sucking Mycroft’s lips sweetly and offering his tongue, back.  It has been a long time since he could imagine letting go, for anyone, at all.  In some ways (those trickiest to put into words), it has not been anywhere near long enough.  It is a delicate mixture.  But sternum and clicking heart be forgot, Alex is suddenly aching most where he hadn’t expected to feel a thing.  “That’s wonderful,” Alex whispers.  “I missed you terribly when you were in Russia, don’t stop, please.” 

Being missed at all, much less terribly, is new.  Mycroft does not intend to let up, now; he has just found the remains of Alex’s iris scent on the front of his neck. 

“Darling.  Let’s.”

“Explain.”

“Let’s take them off, I’m --”

“Are you well?”

_“Never better.”_

Mycroft looks at him intently as he reaches down to unfasten a button at the waist and unzip himself.  “I might not be.”

“Promises, promises,” Alex replies, biting his lips at what he is seeing.  “And now, you can have at mine.”

“Are you certain.  Ah.”  Mycroft is confronted with the artist’s stylish, asymmetrical L-placket of externally-closing trouser buttons, the tailoring of which he has admired before in more neutral circumstances, such as the day they’d met in the library, in fact; those buttons are _as many nuisances_ ( _eleven!?_ ) now that they hold shut a flap of graphite wool that is concealing far more than ever before.

Alex grins as he takes in Mycroft’s cold deliberations.  “I -- _aahm_ \-- I’m not usually in such a state.” 

 _Bespoke work, so many closures.  Barriers, commissioned in a moment of bitterness.  Five by five.  Odd.  “_ Maddening --” 

“Oh, just _there_.  And the last two on the inside, there are -- _ah_ \-- _twelve_.”

“Incinerate them.”

“Never.  I adore them.”  Alex freezes up a bit at Mycroft’s reaction, now.  “Oh, yes -- well, ignore --” 

“Ah, no.”  A surprise.  A cheerless one.  “Nearly twenty years ago.”  Mycroft slips Alex’s trousers off, leaving him in fitted, Viennese silk knit pants and a mostly-open shirt.  He examines a tiny tattoo of a medieval alchemist’s _caput mortuum_ on the artist’s lower abdomen and traces a thumb over it.  “Cardinal purples to a painter.  But it also means _residuum_.  Of sublimation processes.  Vapours.”  His thumb is torturously close to brushing _there_ \-- and only the mixed feelings Alex has toward that mark keep him from writhing against _that hand_.  _Now._   Soon he is back, his mouth just above Alex’s.  “You got it _wrong_.”  Mycroft’s tongue licks over Alex’s mouth as his thumb presses a nerve that streaks to the groin; Alex whines against that kiss.  Mycroft breaks it.  _“_ Catalyst _.”_

“To you,” Alex pants.  “ _Touch_ me before I lose my head.”

“Hush, I’m not finished.”  Again, Mycroft’s choice of place is precise; from the dip between the collarbones he runs his tongue and lips over Alex’s neck, turns his head to the side and licks behind his ear and down to the nape.  “Your irises,” Mycroft whispers, “are gone.” 

Literally.  Alex’s eyes are so dark he looks ill, or mad, or both.  Mycroft lowers his mouth to Alex’s neck again and runs a hand down the flat of his stomach and over his thigh, which is trembling, now.

“Darling,” Alex gasps, and smiles helplessly.  _How does he know_  -- “I won’t stop.”  He arches his back and groans as Mycroft pulls one of his legs aside and places it against his.  

“No,” Mycroft replies, dipping his tongue into Alex’s mouth.  Suddenly they are rubbing into each other’s thighs and hands and kissing with all the intensity one would imagine, given the departure of loneliness versus the cruel times worked into the mind, and when all of the thoughts about what one _would_ do, and feel (-- if _only_ \-- _this_ \-- ever came to be) are surfacing in a rage of need, and Mycroft comes first, with a low snarl that sends Alex over the edge before he can be afraid for his heart, and the force and suddenness of it leave him wrung to where he isn’t certain whether he is entirely all right or not.

He is, though his hands are shaking like mad, and his pants are soaked beyond redemption.  His heart, while very noisy, is that of a man in love, rapid and irregular for reasons that don’t worry him in the least.  “Mycroft,” he says, finally, turning his head to look at the man with an expression that suggests he means _ginger kitty_.  “That.”  He traces a thumb over Mycroft’s lower lip.  “Was lovely.”

“It was.”  Mycroft is conducting a harsh review of his inner life; the balance doesn’t bring about anything new, but the fact he’d managed to achieve _this_ is an enormous relief, despite the awkward aftermath.  And he finally smiles -- with just enough of a flash of lust that Alex raises an eyebrow at him and leans in for more kisses. 

(Alex does not admit that he’d purposefully skipped half his pills that morning, which he really should _not_ do.  Mycroft doesn’t admit that Alex is the only person who has ever smiled and laughed while taking him in his arms to make love.  Better at fifty than never, however.)

“You’re a bad one,” Alex whispers.  “Oh, you are.  Hiding all _that_ so well.”

“Closures,” Mycroft accuses back, and props himself up on one arm to stare down at the artist, whose face is slightly flushed, his lips bitten.  Mycroft still looks dark-eyed and ravenous (and from now on, whenever they are entirely alone, he will look very much this way). 

Alex tries to explain his sudden snickering:  “How will I ever stand at your side calmly again.”

“You are distraction itself,” Mycroft replies.  “You’d have driven the great poets away from their quills and they’d have poured out their inks in despair.”  His eyes ice over, apparently at another thought.

“A cause for despair,” Alex answers, gesturing downward.  “Look what we’ve managed to make of one another’s clothes, honestly.  That we didn’t get them all off?  We will work on that, kitty.”


	48. Overtures

“It’s the twenty-ninth, love,” John says, over his newspaper, from his armchair.  

“It is,” Sherlock answers, from where he is standing at the living room window, rubbing rosin over his bow in preparation for a bit of violin scraping.

“And.  Yeah, still counting those.  Husband.”  John smiles.  “Lunch.  There’s a really nice place with Spanish food, Paella.  We’ve still never gone.”

“Mycroft at twelve,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Today.”  John steals a look at his watch.  “Oh, come on.”

“Yup.  Back from Russia, wants to spread the cheer.”

“Your brother.  Heh, kidding me.  What about ‘armchair analyst’, the least likely planet to leave orbit or how did you put it?” John asks.

“He has _reactivated_ and has taken to hands-on global orchestrating, an old hobby, he’d lost interest in it in recent years.”

John hums.  “So -- he takes, uhm, your friend everywhere, now?”

Sherlock waves and pivots to pick up the violin.  “What?  No.  No!  Of course not.”

“Hm.  So what does he want.  Today.  The move?  Yeah?  Oh, come on.  How does he even know?  Oh, so, he’s looking at pictures of us in bloody cow fields?” John throws his hands up and lets them slap over his thighs. 

“I informed him, yesterday, once you’d agreed.”  _Not that it had been necessary, strictly speaking._

“So.  Sherlock, that’s actually something else.  If we move out there, will anything change with the, you know.  The camera in the living room and the listening in?” John asks.  He’s finally verbalised a thought he’s been rolling around a lot in his mind, with no small amount of concern.  “Because we’re moving to the countryside, and.”

“And.  That among other things will be on the agenda, yes.  But don’t expect change.”

“Oh, come on --”

Beethoven's _Opus 131_ , with a few Holmesian additives, is all the reply John will receive, for now.

***

Ever the peace envoy, Alex has done his part in delivering the ginger eminence to Sherlock at Baker Street in unusually good spirits, for what is ( _veritably, with statistical backing_ ) bound to be a disagreeable hour of irreconcilable differences, at least for the most part.  The elder Holmes’ purposely blasé expression betrays nothing of the fact that not long before he’d been playing his now-out-of-tune upright piano (his fingers ache) and wincing at Alex’s ability to sing several bits of _The Sorcerer_ on demand, as proof to them both he had been every bit as _nasty_ an elder brother as David Nussbaum; he’d lost a wager, as well; brunch had been brilliant, however.  It had got rather ridiculous and should, in fact, be classified _for nobody’s eyes, ever._   The cook can be bought off, he reasons. 

“Tell me,” Alex says to Sherlock’s tense little wolf, who standing closest to him, now.  “Do you know where we can get a pint at this hour, nearby?”

“Sure do.”

“Warfarin!” Sherlock barks at Alex, though more for John’s benefit.

“It’s four past twelve.  Allowed,” Alex remarks, looking at his watch.  “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” John says.

“Right, then,” the artist says, and turns his eyes to Mycroft, taking care not to look at him too lingeringly.  He would gladly cross over to him, though none of the things on his mind would be universally acceptable to the others in the room, least of all to Sherlock, who is watching them both very carefully; he’d attempted to sniff them as they’d come in the door, perhaps to compare toiletries and whether any had been shared (they had not -- Mycroft is not so careless; they’d even stopped by the office in order to collect the right sort of sand from the pavements in the grooves of their shoes -- and to pick up a crucial file, of course; _nothing_ shall detract from the point, today).  “Text me.”

The detective huffs irreverently, “Don’t worry, I’ll show him how to." He watches his soldier reach the door to the stairs, and how he is shaking his head.

“Arrest for aggravated assault is easily avoided, not so, brother?  Our plans stand,” Mycroft replies to Alex, though he is looking wryly at Sherlock, who is already well on his way from irritated to frothing and looks like he could use a smoke.

***

“Warfarin, yeah.  I’ve seen some hair loss with that.  Depression, too,” John says, having got through most of his pint of beer far too quickly.

“Yeah, the INR is 2-0, now, the first month or two were the worst.  But we don’t really need to talk shop, John, do we.  I’m all right.”  Alex crosses his ankles and studies John’s furrowed brow, the cares there.

“Hmm.  Jesus.”  John sighs and clears his throat.  “Maybe they can switch it.  There’s supposed to be a new one coming out.  Fewer side effects.”

“Perhaps.  Well.  They were playing to us, you see,” Alex says, changing the subject.  “There’s no point in indulging them, it’ll just make things worse.”

“Yeah,” John answers.  “You’ve noticed the drama bit.  Hmm.”

“I have, mhm.”

“Yeah.  You all right?  With him?” John glances out the window and swallows. 

“I am,” Alex answers.  “And I think I’ve just admitted to something.”

“If you say so,” John shrugs and clenches his jaw. 

“And nobody would ever _believe_ how he is at home, would they.”

“Point taken.” John sniffs.  “Just, I don’t know.  Be careful.”

Alex smiles into his water glass, one eyebrow raised prettily.

 _Not mousey.  Bloody barmy._   “Sure.”  John takes a quick sip of beer.  “History.  They have anger, you know, and.”

“And you do, too, understandably.  John, I mean vicarious anger, at the very least.”

“Yeah.” John cannot relax around Alex, and never has been able to.  “There’s been some stuff.  With Mycroft.  Over the years.”

“Mm.  Well.  They’re a lot alike.”  Alex is avoiding the eyes of a server who is passing the table too close for the second time.  “But the very things that make them so lovely to you and me, divide _them_.  It makes it hard to find ways to help things.  But it’s well worth a try.”

 _Mycroft, lovely.  Sure._  “Yeah.  True.”  John considers that for a moment, nods, and licks his lips.  “Listen.  This is -- more than sort of -- ?”

 _“Shagging,”_ Alex supplies, and raises an eyebrow.

“Uhm.”  John’s ears go pink.  “Yeah, maybe it sounded like that.”

“It’s fine.  I don’t tend to make long-term plans, out of habit, as silly as that sounds.  But....”

John nods and looks down at his glass.  “If it’s worth it.”

“You’d know better than anyone that it is, John.”

There is a silence when they look at each other thoughtfully.  Alex orders another half-pint for John.  For a moment, Alex would swear John wants to ask for something.  But he doesn’t.  

He has already perceived that he won’t have to.  Alex smiles and raises his water glass toward John’s small brew.  “May a flash never excite us to retreat, or doubt reduce us to defeat.” 

“Sounds about right,” John replies clinking their glasses.  “Cheers for that.  Thanks.”

“If only there were something to thank me for,” Alex says, and sighs as he glances out the window.

It’s a quick pub stay, but a rambling walk back through Regent’s Park.  It hits John that the same intense calm (if it is possible to have something like that) which has allowed Alex to live with chronic illness and carry himself with that sort of Victorian decorum of his -- and whatever else it is that has kept him and Sherlock from strangling each other all these months, must work on Mycroft, even more.  _Maybe he isn’t Mycroft’s toy?  Someone sort of started taking me along to work, not so different -- genetic?_

“John, you’ll wait with me a moment for the car,” Alex says, interrupting John’s conclusions and oncoming smirk of understanding.

“Sure, something wrong?” John looks behind them.  Alex has been antsy since they’d left the pub, where a telephone number and smiley had been left under the bill for him from ‘Josh’. 

“No, of course not.”

“He doesn’t sort of let you --“

“For reasons.  I won’t keep you long.”

“No problem, just asking.”

“That’s fine.”  Alex looks embarrassed, now.  “ _And in front of you_.  Lord.”

“Hmm.  Probably supposed to be a compliment.”

“As though a man needed such compliments,” Alex mumbles to himself, leaving John to think that over for a few long seconds.  “Well, then.  Would you like to go back to Baker Street, now, or?”

“Walking.  Thanks.”

“I’d rather you came along with me.  Well.  Honestly, the file scared me to death, John,” Alex says, his eyes suddenly glistening over.  “The one Mycroft brought today to show Sherlock.  You might have a look at it.”

“Uhm.  What.  What was in there?”

“Everyone who’s been carted away from your front door, or your street, or your environs, where you’ve been, even in Europe.  Gracious Peter, John, it’s terrifying.  It appears he has enemies, and some crazed fans -- you do, too -- whether he is working or not.  And.  For the record, I am very much opposed to the current state of your living room.  Yet admittedly there are -- there are -- worse states -- to be in, there has to be a balance, of course there should be a rationalisation of matters.  I’m sorry, I can’t always -- stop this --”

“Take it easy, it’s your pills, they make people flighty.  Not that you’re -- okay -- listen.  We always had weirdos coming round, or calling, and he’s had threats, we’ve been through some of that.  Kidnappings, bombs, before he jumped, it was, like five years ago, the worst of it.”  (Alex squeaks and claps a hand over his mouth.)  “I know something’s holding it off because it’s been _too_ bloody peaceful, for almost a year, now, come to think of it.  Since last spring.”

“Oh.  Ah, here’s the car, John,” Alex says.  “Please?” 

When John arrives at 221B he finds Sherlock in the kitchen holding a full French press of coffee; Mycroft is in the living room, in John’s armchair, thumbing through the small book of watercoloured botanical sketches.  John’s heart sinks. _Gave it over._ The folder Alex had referred to is on the table; it is about three-quarters of an inch thick.  _Jesus.  Right._

“Tea?” Sherlock asks him stiffly, evaluating his pupils and walk. 

“Nah.”  John motions him closer for a small kiss, which he adds a flick of tongue to.  _Behave._

(John and Alex have missed hearing some fierce blows.  The security measures will remain very much unchanged, though focused more on the perimeter of their property.  But.  Peace is about a process of attempts and steps and is not found in any one event, as any truth-speaking diplomat will admit in a heartbeat.)

Sherlock plunks the coffee press onto a tray with cups and swoops it off the counter, past John, back into the living room, where he sets it on a side table.  As he goes to flop into his own armchair, Mycroft holds the book out to him.  “Yes, well,” he says, picking up the coffee press and pouring himself a half-cup of coffee.  “It’s more or less how I remembered it.  The daffodils were my favourites among those of Mummy’s and of Grandmother’s, the orange salvia.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, though he is _very_ pleased that brother dear has actually given the book back instead of pocketing it.  “Mmm.”  He flips through it and shrugs agreement.

 “And of yours, of course the morning glory stands out, as does the _nymphaea caerulea_ ,” Mycroft adds, to which John’s mouth makes a little ‘o’, back in the kitchen, before he turns away to the fridge to look busy.  _Holy shit.  Twenty-ninth of April.  Ought to write that down somewhere._

Sherlock turns to put the book on the living room table and when he approaches to pour himself some coffee, he finds one waiting for him on the tray.  He is genuinely surprised, by now, but over-sweetens it calmly enough.

***

To John, it is still an anniversary day, and change or no change, disappointment notwithstanding, he wants to celebrate a little and enjoy Sherlock (who needs extra unwinding and more coaxing to accept it than usual, though he comes around and joins John upstairs in his bedroom).  “I know.  But,” John tells him.  “We’re together.  We’re all right.  Won’t change overnight -- hmmm, this.  You feel great.  Take this off.  Oh, oh hey -- shhh --”

“Mmm?” Sherlock looks startled.

“I totally -- you know, Frederick texted, you’ve got another shirt.  Dark red, silk, just like the blue one.  Damn, I forgot to pick it up, I’m --”

“Brilliant.  Brilliant, John, thank you.”

“Welcome, beautiful.  Sorry, just forgot.  Looked at you, and.” John smiles and puts his lips on Sherlock’s collarbone.  “Don't need any of this.”  John unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt and trousers.  “You want this as bad I do.  Going to make you come, now,” he breathes in Sherlock’s ear, pushing his clothes off.  “And I’m going to get a cab and pick up your shirt.  And then I’m coming back, and -- you’ll fuck me, in it.  Only in that so I can feel it on my back.”

Sherlock groans and presses his tongue into John’s mouth as John treats him to a very fast, hard hand job, the sort that shorts out his mind and blanks over everything but _those_ strokes, from _those warm, certain fingers._   For him. 

_Beautiful John._


	49. Setting a scene

Sherlock convinces John to stay in and leave the shirt with Frederick for another day; he has plans to take Alex (at last) to meet the Brazilian tailor on Jermyn Street. The previous time, the artist had been too tired after encountering Oleg, the nose from Irkutsk, and had begged off making a useful acquaintance. At the same time, they will drop in to see the Russian, who by now has most likely made contact with Kadi Perkins -- his _burning orange woman_ ; Sherlock is curious how a certain deduction of his (and accompanying prediction) will pan out, in reality. 

Sherlock has Russia on the brain, as it happens.  Natasha's death by overdose has since been avenged by a serious beating; the shady ( _indeed married_ ) character is recovering in a hospital with a plainclothes officer stationed outside in the hallway, day and night.  Sherlock is also considering a visit to the grumpy teen coding genius, Nikita, for a bespoke tunneling virus, hand-stitched to the servers of an on-line tabloid news service that has just published a photograph of his and John’s ‘wedding’ (when Sherlock had been best man and the benevolently smiling groom had just attached himself to a certain unmentionable whose hair had not even been blond, strictly speaking).  Sherlock wants to choose the moment well, so that his far-too-smug ( _why?_ ) ginger sibling will not locate his Nikita and exploit his talents for the nefarious purposes of the British Government; Sherlock even suspects the photograph has been “let through” to provoke him into visiting Nikita straight away, though he has no real proof of that.

But back to John -- who wants to go upstairs because he likes the mirror on the door ( _to be hung in the living room in Eastbourne_ ) and a certain bottle of something he’d got recently.  Sherlock’s head is starting to race with ideas though his legs are still pleasantly wobbly; John pushes him ahead of himself.

This time will not be so quick and they’ll let up after a while (Sherlock’s had his fill) but John doesn’t mind; later, the feeling of having Sherlock wrapped behind his back, lips at his nape and neck, fingers in his hair to turn his head closer for deeper kisses, a clever teasing hand kneading over foreskin and tugging and flicking over the swollen tip of his cock just faster than even his racing heart can keep up with (he bucks into that hand and groans) is -- _amazing_.

All eight months have been, John thinks as he dozes off; he has just turned onto his side when he hears the door slam shut downstairs; Sherlock has slipped out for a walk.

***

“Hi.  Wow.  So, it’s been sort of a while.”

“It has.”

Sherlock is standing very straight, hands folded behind his back, and cuts as impressive a figure to Molly Hooper as he always had.  However, he feels all at once how many changes have stacked up between himself and the once-bubbly pathologist, now that he sees her, in _her_ environment, at Bart's.  She’s managed to gain six pounds.  She wears her hair down, has taken to wearing soft but relatively attractive make-up, and looks better than he has ever seen her before.  Under her coat, instead of a distractingly busy or infantile jumper, for instance, she has a simple, dark silky blue blouse with tiny red robins all over it.  She has longish red earrings.  Her reaction (startled and then sheepish) suggests she hasn’t missed him terribly much -- or perhaps she anticipates hearing a request she isn’t willing to fulfill. 

She soon exposes that thought more openly.  “I -- got a bit of a reprimand and -- so -- I can’t let you -- draw.  Or take -- things.  For science.  I mean, you see, I can’t let you in,” she exclaims, quickly, her hands waving loopy shapes of progress through the explanation she wants to get over with, _now_.

“I’ve taken to sketching the living,” Sherlock remarks, sniffing (John, when asleep, is an attractive model indeed.  But he doesn’t plan to spell that out, here).

“Maybe your -- well.  Your _husband_?” Molly asks, with a slightly hurt flash in her eyes.  “For example?”

“For example.”

“You didn’t even say.  That you’re getting married.  I mean, you do have other friends.  Both of you do.”

“Ah.  Well.  It was a legal formality, no guests.”

“But you still could have _said_.  I read it.  In a newspaper, afterward, a couple weeks ago.”

“I first read of my marriage to John in a newspaper as well, though that was a number of years ago.”

“That’s sort of not really funny,” Molly answers.  “We’re still happy for you, of course, just, we don’t really know what the big secret was about.  Were you in hiding?”

 _You and Marv.  Ah._   “No secret.”  Sherlock fishes about for an explanation.  _Why.  Why.._.  “John’s church wedding provided a set of ceremonial...archetypes.  We didn’t want to repeat any of them.”  _Rubbish, but viable, as nonsense goes._

“Including the announcements _and_ the whole guest list?  Okay.”

 _In a sense._ “There _were_ no guests.”

“But.  Who was your best man?  Or woman?”

“My friend, Alexander Nussbaum.”

“Wh -- oh.  Who was he?”

“My...art teacher.”  Sherlock smiles thinly.

The conversation is becoming increasingly surreal to Molly, who decides to put forward an update for lack of anything more meaningful to say.  “Marv and I are happy, though,” she comments.  “We’re doing some cosplay, it’s fun, we’ve got a group of four who -- we all go.  A good way to sort of travel a little and -- “

“Have ‘fun’.”

“Yeah, basically.  Yeah.  I’m glad we met, it was about time for both of us, I think.  To meet someone.  Someone special.  Not that we had never met anyone particularly special, just it never worked out to be special after a while.  Or.  Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

“You’re reluctant to admit aloud that you consider him to be a long-term partner, if not fiancé,” Sherlock remarks.

“It never worked out before.  So.  Yeah.  Basically.  You’re right.”  Molly pauses.  “Sorry to be blunt.  But.  Was there something you wanted?  I’m just asking because I’m about to go off my shift.  And.”

“No.  John and I will be moving out of London,” Sherlock says.

Molly’s face pinches.  “So -- far away?  Where?”

“East Sussex.”

_“What?”_

***

Alex screams a little into his hands as he looks down at a set of forty-eight Nevskaya Palitra White Nights watercolours in a lacquered wooden box.  ‘Memories from St. Petersburg’, as it says in Russian on one side of a card tucked in with them; the reverse of it reads:  _Only 6 reds but you’ll get by.  Dining in, 20:00._

Alex has heard of these Russian paints (and squirrel-hair brushes) and he can’t get to his desk fast enough to test them out.  He starts unwrapping the little pigment bricks one by one with excitement spiraling through his chest.

_Kitty, thank you!  They’re so beautiful! :))))) X_

That evening, once the car has brought Alex to the elder Holmes’ house, Mycroft picks up the artist’s right hand first thing and glances at it.  He raises his eyebrows at Alex’s cuticles and finger pads.  

"Yes, they stain," Alex grins.

“You tried them _all_.”

“Well.  They were from _you_.”  Alex takes Mycroft’s coat from his hand and hangs it on a carved, dark oak rack near the door before slipping off his own.  “Should I have held off?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I couldn’t have.  Now, I’ve been staring down at blood and gore for hours."

“Mm.  I’ve had a similar time of it, anti-proliferation legislation with loopholes that allow for stocks of currently-decommissioned forms of ammunition to be used abroad in completely new contexts,” Mycroft remarks, pulling loose his tie.  “Come along,” he says, leading Alex upstairs by the small of his back. “Clearly in the interest of one unnameable weapons concern,” he explains,  pulling off his accoutrements and setting them as he had the evening before on a table in his bedroom, “Whose thirty-year-old missiles were just photographed -- well -- ah.”  He sees that Alex wants to take off his cuff buttons for him and hesitantly obliges, holding up his hand as he would to a butler before making a face.   “In the hands of -- well.  Ah.  We’re going to Strasbourg.  In three days, for one night.”

Alex kisses his cheek and he puts the buttons down.  “Strasbourg?  With you?  Tell me something more about it.  What’s happening there?”

“Two key international court rulings in one day.  And the threads that link them are delicate, indeed,” Mycroft says, eyes lead-heavy and dark.  He rolls back his sleeves.  “No journalist will risk state-directed execution to write a word about it.  To us, the immediate reactions are critical -- the commentaries directly afterward, at a certain dinner.  On the basis of which informal policy change can be drafted and presented to a minority party as a populist distractor to one particular player.  It will tip things just in time for an election in six days, where anti-British sentiments are currently too high for comfort, and don’t allow a margin of victory more than that of statistical error, in this case _four_ percent.”  He suddenly rubs his hands together -- not entirely unlike Sherlock when he is feeling playful, enough to surprise Alex and make him wonder what is coming.  “Now.  Alexander.  I have an idea, but I’m no artist, perhaps you’d take it on?”

“What?  You can paint beautifully, darling.”

“No.  To give visual expression to the idea of historic and contemporary forms of _character assassination_.”

“Character assassination.  There are many subtle forms, that’s true.”

“That is what we are going there to watch.  A dissenting voice will remain behind bars to die of untreated illness, in shame, and the other will order that damages be paid by one small government for a violation of international broadcasting laws.  A precedent that will curb the activity of an important online radio service in the months to come, to the detriment of -- you’re shaking your head.  I see this is not the best _preludium_ to our evening, apologies.” 

“And why not?” Alex replies, and Mycroft finds he needs no more encouragement to grasp the artist’s cheek and slip his mouth over Alex’s with all the passion of an irritating afternoon, apart, melting into _now_.  There is gratitude in it, for the bloodless coup at noon especially, but mostly relief.  “I’m --” Alex says, turning his head away to breathe.  “So -- “

“I’m also very pleased.  That you’re going to see it all, among other things,” Mycroft tells him.  “History, Alexander.”

“Things,” Alex smiles, exhaling heavily.

“The Equinox book.  Eighteen thousand seven hundred pounds, in the end, as of this morning, it’s official,” Mycroft declares, and continues almost manically, “Don’t be surprised if it becomes an annual, there is already talk of it.  Ah, a quick meeting just before Edinburgh regarding the proposed construction of the water wheel in the Beijing pavilion, you’ll need to prepare.  Would you like to speak to Randall again beforehand?”

“I -- y -- sorry,” Alex pants.  “I’m -- still at primitive sounds.”

“I’m tiring you.”

“But, what if I can’t keep up?” Alex asks.

Mycroft sniffs.  “Only this afternoon I was reminded that I am ‘the most tedious deskbound creature anyone’s had the hardship of sharing a parent with'.”  He leaves out the rest: _And now you can’t seem to keep your nose in England, nooooo surprise there_ \--  “What is it.”

Alex tries to salvage the moment and forces a laugh.  “Sherlock has kindly overlooked my attachment to my own desk.”

“I daresay he is incapable of overlooking any attachment of yours.  And --” Mycroft says, as Alex finds himself backed against the long side of the man’s bed, “-- he wouldn’t mock what happens at your desk.”

“Well.  You know, furniture ought to _relate people_ in a room.  According to architects,” Alex remarks, the corners of his lips turning up.

“Ah.  Architects.” 

“But unless we’re climbing on top of it, together, I won’t ever care for your --“

“Desk,”  Mycroft finishes.  “I will care for it only provisionally, from now on.”  Alex is keen to continue that line of flirtation, but will not have a chance.  “Alexander.  You will _not_ skip the Warfarin anymore,” Mycroft tells him unexpectedly.  “Like you did yesterday.”

Alex blinks, wondering what physical or emotional nuance had just given him away.  “I -- well.  You’re angry, then,” he says.

“Inasmuch as you take needless risks.  _Never_ on my account.  Do we understand one another?”

“I should say so,” Alex replies, a shade intractably.

“Now compose yourself and wash up for dinner, meet me in fifteen, downstairs.”

Alex uses most of that quarter-hour rinsing his eyes and rubbing cold water into his cheeks (John’s remark about flightiness is spot on, he knows, and it’s worse, today) and dresses down to his shirt, as well.  When Alex finds Mycroft in the dining room, reading, he approaches straight away.  “Alone?” he whispers.

“We are.”

He leans down and says, in Mycroft’s ear, “It was foolish.  But.”  He kisses around that ear several times, and adds, “You understand, perfectly, what it means to a man to please his lover.  One does _mad_ things, in earnest, _one wants to_.”  

Mycroft doesn’t answer, which is not a denial as much as dozens of thoughts jumbling and tangling at once, very suddenly.  Several seconds pass little-noticed, somehow, and Alex straightens; the cook is audible again in the kitchen.  Mycroft finally gestures toward the table and Alex chooses to seat himself at his right hand.  The meal, while small and excellently prepared, is nearly unendurable, the latest in a lengthening series of suppers that have driven Mycroft to distraction; he enjoys every warm glance for the seduction that it is, but feels a new internal scramble away from some frantic feelings of his own. 

As absurd as it is, their calm closeness, in commonplace situations, sets off the most unease about _loss_ in the elder Holmes; _he_ makes things happen or cease to happen; his milieu and the travels uphold the chimera of control, too -- attractively.  Even now, as they set down their cutlery and finish their drinks, Mycroft is easily reminded by the quickened clicking sound in the artist’s breast to tame the storm in his own.  “Alexander,” Mycroft says, as something nearly fights itself to the surface.  _Little dove._   “Shall we?” He sets a linen serviette aside and stands. 

“Yes, thank you, darling.” Alex tries to take his hand, once again.

“I don’t care for that,” comes a curt answer.

“They were burned, saving a book that had been thrown into the fire during a row,” Alex fills in, quietly.  Mycroft stares.  The artist already seems to want to retract his words, but pushes himself forward, instead.  “And.  He does regret it.”

The pause is more and more difficult to break into and Mycroft looks away.  “We’ll go upstairs,” he manages to say quite calmly.  “We leave the house in nine and a half hours.”

“Did you come to any understanding today about the house in Eastbourne?” Alex asks, slipping his arm around Mycroft’s back effortlessly. 

“Your psychology courses are showing,” Mycroft replies.  He swallows and moderates his tone.  “It was precisely as I’d expected, and no better.  No.  From my side, perimeter monitoring, and a prevention focus.  However, that is not only my decision.  Enough.”

“Okay,” Alex replies.  “The effort matters.  Well.  I’ve thought of you all day, how you were, I could hardly stand there, in their living room.”

“I was aware,” Mycroft smiles as Alex reaches for his shirt buttons. 

“You are so charming when you smile like that, I’ll make a scene.”

“But not alone,” Mycroft says, and gives himself over to the reprieve of feeling Alex’s laugh under his lips as it melts into warm kisses.


	50. A plan for fate

Sherlock is at Alex’s flat, attempting to ‘kill the master’ by painting his portrait in a quick watercolour sketch.  It is going poorly, for now.  “Nnngh.  Too strong, too strong.” Sherlock growls down at his paper, where he has just misapplied a streak of blue.

“Blot it,” Alex suggests, quickly.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock mutters, as if to the paper, though context suggests otherwise.

“Why, this time?” Alex asks.

“For ever agreeing to teach me to draw,” Sherlock replies.  “Too late.  Starting over.  Your nose is being impossible, as usual.”

“Father did his best, really.  Stop smiling, now, it’s making me laugh and I’ll not hold still -- stop!” Alex looks away.  “Lord, there’s nothing _wrong_ with my nose!” 

Sherlock sighs and coughs.  “Could be worse, imagine half a century of experience with father’s nose.”

Alex mulls that over; suddenly, a nerve seems to have fired; he smiles and blushes.  “Yes.  Mmmm.  Lovely.” 

Sherlock scowls as he watches the failure of his jab at Mycroft, which has reached love-deafened ears.  “I’m not doing you justice on paper,” he gripes, swiping several lines along the paper.

“Well.  Nobody metes out justice with watercolour these days,” Alex replies airily, before snickering to himself.

“Mmmm.  True.”  Sherlock has apparently lost interest in noses and exhales loudly.  His stomach is rumbling.  “You’d like Eastbourne.”

“I’ve only seen the chalk cliffs near Brighton unless you count passing through Dover at night.  Well.  If I ever left London, I’d want to live at the foot of the Alps.  Like in Innsbruck, close to Italy.  Or Switzerland.”

Sherlock sets aside his brush and steeples his fingers.  “Innsbruck.  That can be arranged.”

“Sherlock....” Alex licks his lips and brushes at his trousers.  “You’re hungry.  Would you care for a bit of salmon on toast?  I have some Bulgarian tomatoes that actually have flavour.”

“You’ve taken to importing flavours, too.  Nauseating.”

“No, the European Union has seen to that for us, dear.  Sherlock, please don’t poke at your brother, he cares for you so much.”

“Rubbish.  He cares for control.  And where is he dragging you off to, now?”

“Strasbourg.  You also enjoy special things, like I do, like John does.”  Alex shrugs and gestures at Sherlock’s suit and then his ring.  “We all like pretty things.”

“Speaking of which.  We’re going to my tailor’s,” Sherlock mutters.

“Oh?  Your Brazilian?  Gladly.  I’ve nothing to wear half the time.”

“You’ve finally noticed?  Things are far worse than I’d imagined.”

“Sorry?”

“Noticing what needs replacement.  You only do that when -- “ _you are in love, wanting most to live --_

“When I am what, Sherlock.” 

“Salmon,” Sherlock says, clapping and rubbing his hands together.  "You mentioned salmon!"

***

Sherlock’s dark oxblood red silk blouse is more obvious as easy-off-loungewear than the first one had been, in dark blue.  Alex raises an eyebrow at it.  “Pretty, you see.  John keeps you -- well.  No.  It’s lovely.  I don’t suppose there’d be bottoms made to match, that would be self-defeating?”

“Alex.”  It is too late; Sherlock’s neck has flushed pink.  Frederick enters the room and draws Alex out for measurements.  Sherlock drops the shirt on Frederick’s desk,  steps away and snaps a photo of the entire scene.

_Thinking of you.  SH  [attachment]_

_I love you, beautiful._

_It finally loaded.  You’re evil.  More_

_Ask Alex to take one on pedestal?  SH_

_Killing you tonight._

Frederick is engrossed in measuring Alex when Sherlock swans out of the tailor’s workroom and takes a chair behind Alex, who is standing on Frederick’s pedestal, turned away from the Brazilian’s mirror; they are already jabbering in German.  Sherlock notes immediately that the tailor is flustered, his fingers fluttering nearly as much as his tape measure.   _Sophisticated, a designer, exotic flair, German.  Another six years older than my brother -- good.  Excellent!_   Sherlock imagines he is about to hatch a brilliant plan.

Frederick has asked Alex to remove his trousers at the waist and Alex has gently refused.  He is wearing the pair that had recently driven Mycroft half mad on his bed, with twelve buttons ( _stations of the cross, months of the year, what have you_ ) and Frederick admires them, gathering a bit more tactile data than he might, usually.  Sherlock snickers to himself.   _Very good._

Alex remarks that he needs something more official (with a focus on elegant suiting materials but with interesting cuts) for occasional meetings and more frequent Continental travel.Frederick smiles and removes his gold glasses.  _“Sie haben doch einem eintönigen Leben mit all den Herren in ihren dunklen Anzügen etwas Charme verliehen.  Aber?”_

Alex’s eyes glitter and he glances at his friend in the mirror, finding him suddenly offended and shaking his head. _“Vielleicht._ Sherlock, don’t make faces when you know what he means to me.”

The Brazilian puts up an arm and asks Alex to carefully step down from the pedestal; he wraps his tape around Alex’s chest; the precise moment he hears the clicking in Alex’s heart registers all over his face.   _“Bald werden Sie auch heiraten...?”_ he asks.

Alex gulps at the sight of Sherlock grinning sardonically to himself in his chair.

 _“Ich würde das gerne tun, aber....”_ the artist replies. 

_“Sie haben die Wahl, es ist nicht Schicksal,”_ the tailor says to him in a rather fatherly way.

Sherlock hums and crosses his legs at the knee.  _“Hah.  Nur das Schicksal des goldenen Käfigs.”_

Frederick replies to him, perhaps for Alex’s benefit, _“Das heißt, die Ehe?”_

 _“Nein,”_ Sherlock retorts. _“‘Die Bemühungen’ einer Bürokraten.”_

 _“Och, sie geben höchstens gute Ex-Ehemänner ab,”_ the tailor quips and winks at Alex, who had gone pale at the _cage_ remark.

Sherlock snorts in a sort of agreement, though the irony is getting too thick for his friend, by now.

Alex sighs, _“Mein lieber, die ‘Freiheit’ kann auch furchtbar sein.”_

Frederick sniffs a small laugh and runs the tape in his hand down the inside of Alex’s arm. _“Doch.  Oder du nimmst dein Schicksal fest in die Hand?”_ He glances up at the artist, who nods at him sweetly and winks back.

 _“Noch ist Zeit, um die Situation zu ändern, aber nicht mehr lange,”_ Sherlock says to Frederick, indicating Alex, who squeezes his teeth tightly and takes a deep breath so as not to shout everything he is thinking:  _I admire him, I adore him, I love him, though I know I will never --_

Sherlock sees that the sound of the clicking in Alex’s chest has misled Frederick into thinking that Alex cannot marry for reasons of health; Sherlock does not right things, convinced there is no point to it.  When Alex has excused himself from the room, eyes glistening with unexpected tears (as well, Sherlock doesn’t warn him he is about to pull off his own trousers -- _what for?_ ) he says in a low voice, “Finally.  For him, a second with a trim silhouette in funereal black, lined in blue.  His attachment to buttons is disturbing.”  Spoken by a man who delights in unbuttoning John (when John asks him to) this is particularly amusing, but the Brazilian knows not of what Sherlock smirks, and makes some notes for himself in a lovely, scrolling hand.  

“For a funeral...?”

“No, for a funereal life.”

Frederick still does not understand what Sherlock is suggesting but looks unsettled as he picks up a pattern piece and holds it against Sherlock’s thigh. 

“He is a very talented fine artist,” Sherlock tells the tailor. 

“I wonder to myself,” Frederick says, thoughtfully, “why you deny that Herr Nussbaum is in love.  You cannot have two,” he adds.  “Some men can, but not you.”

That silences Sherlock more effectively than many other remarks might have done. 

Not more than a half-hour later, Oleg declares that the artist _still_ smells of pharma, groans, and tells him that he is now "the colour of wrecked metals and small forest deer."

“He means fawn-like rusty brown,” Sherlock grumbles.  

“Oh... _ginger_ ,” Alex sighs. 

Oleg shakes his head and and complains, “For you, all woods, plum, honey and clove.  Your pharma _sillage_ kills your very good smell!”

“Kadi?” Sherlock asks the Russian.

“Ahhhh!  Yes, I make for that woman eight scents.  And she like all -- all eight!  I will go to Paris, after one year.  I learn French with that beautiful woman!” Oleg says.  “She will have child, we go to Paris, I make all line for her in Paris salon!” he almost howls in the middle of the shop.  “I love her!  But.”

“Shh.  Exactly.  But.  How many hours can you tolerate her scent in your presence?” Sherlock asks, suppressing a grin as Alex raises his eyebrows almost like John.

“Almost two hours!” Oleg says, triumphantly.

"It must be love," Sherlock replies.  "Congratulations."

____________________

_* German texts:_

_F - You have certainly added some charm to one rather dull life, where all the men are in their dark suits, or?_

_A - Perhaps._

_F - Will you also marry, soon?_

_A - I would gladly do so, but...._

_F - You have a choice, it’s not fate._

_S - Ha.  Only the fate of a golden cage._

_F - In other words, meaning marriage?_

_S - No.  The ‘endeavours’ of a paper-pusher._

_F - Oh, they [bureaucrats] most often make for good ex-husbands._

_A - Being ‘free’ can also be horrid, my dear._

_F - Indeed.  Or, you’ll just take your destiny into your own hands?_

_S - There is still time to change things, but not much._

***

When John comes back to Baker Street after work, he enters the flat with hunger in every mannerism of his body.  Sherlock is in the kitchen, still slightly annoyed by the tailor’s remark but never more certain that he has chosen _his one_ perfectly.  John’s hands are slipping around his back and digging in during a long good-evening kiss.  Just afterward, they are quick to pluck at Sherlock’s tied gown front and check for oxblood red underneath -- hoping for nothing more.  He is not disappointed.  “Just soup,” he says.  “Jesus.  You’re trying to kill me.  Sending that.”

“It turned out well.  Thank you.”

“Oh, you’ll show me,” John says, backing away down the hall.  “Heh,” Sherlock hears from inside the bathroom, where John has darted in to wash his hands.

“News?” Sherlock asks, when his soldier returns to the table and starts looking around at the clutter on it with a nervous wetting of the lips.

“Uh, yeah.  Yeah.” John pulls up a chair and sits in front of a small square of eating-surface.  “I turned in my notice today, to HR.”

“Oh?” 

“When are we meeting the notary, though?  I mean, I can still turn things back if you’re not -- you know, or if the family changes their plans and stays on.  In England.  So.  When.”

“A week from tomorrow, if Lawrence finishes in court at the right hour and finishes drafting the annex to the agreement.  Which he has to.”

“Annex.”

“That the title will be in your name, as well.”

“Wh -- really?”

“Of course.”

“Doesn’t have to be.  Love, it’s -- you know.”

“Ours.”

“Going to need to let that sink in.”  John shakes his head.  “Right.  Ours.  Look.  There’s another thing.  We need to tell some people what’s going on.  Confirm some rumours and also let them know we’re --“

Sherlock smiles, thinking of Molly; he hums.  “Mhm.  Married, but alive.”  He sets a steaming bowl of tomato soup with cheese melting on top and a piece of sliced baguette in front of John.

“Cheers.”  John continues, “Uhm, so, about that place, love.  I’ve been thinking.  If we actually do have a new address, you know, I’d like to keep it sort of off-line and not make it widely known this time?  Good.  This is good.  Hmm.”

“Understood.”

John nods and eats in silence.  He is clearly working through the wording on his next topic (he seems to have several of them, Sherlock thinks).

“Are you planning to --“ John finally sets down the bread and reaches over to take Sherlock’s hand, which he worries under his thumb. 

"Planning what."

“So.  Just.  Will you be taking on any cases anymore, from there?” John asks.

“I won’t rule it out,” Sherlock says, glancing away and attempting nonchalance.  “I certainly might.  From time to time.  Possibly for my brother.”

“Uhm,” John sips at the contents of his spoon.  Another silence (with the roar of John's thoughts) follows.

“Would you be -- sort of --“ John mumbles a bit to himself and takes several more bites of soup.

Sherlock stiffens a bit in anticipation.   _What is it.  A surprise --_

“Look.  I’m going to let go of the blog finally,” John says.  “I think I want to do something else.”

“Something else.”  Sherlock swallows.  He isn’t sure how to respond.  On the one hand, the blog has always been an important litmus test of John’s excitement level and approval.  On the other, it has hardly been touched except for the no-longer-recent post regarding the case of Sasha, the young man who’d been drowned in sewage, in Manchester.  

“Take stock of things.  What still makes sense, what’s still relevant."

John furrows his eyebrows at the lack of response.  He seems about to continue speaking but squeezes Sherlock’s hand instead.  He finishes his soup that way, with his phoenix’s beautiful fingers laced in his own.  


	51. Given a signal

Four people are lowering a dying man in prison clothes, on a makeshift bed, through the ceiling at the European Courtroom of Human Rights in Strasbourg, right into the middle of a Grand Chamber Hearing: Alex’s newest ink drawing, a terrifyingly desolate, saviour-less image entitled _Character Assassination, Nr 1_ , is a doodle turned deathly-serious  and the product of a solitary night in a Strasbourg hotel room (while Mycroft had rushed out of his own room to attend an ultra secret meeting, which he’d returned from at four in the morning).  

It is not only for lack of sleep that Mycroft is stirred by the image when Alex presents it at their shared breakfast, which they’ve met downstairs for, punctually at eight.  Mycroft hadn’t expected his friend to take interest in his title idea so soon, much less that he might stay up to create a unique portrait of the controversial ruling instead of resting (the latter of which he does not approve of). 

He decides on the spot that they will both need to go to Switzerland after all, and sets the drawing aside where it cannot be soiled.

“I couldn’t sleep until one,” Alex admits, though he is glowing.  He lowers his voice to a whisper, adding, “And you’d asked me not to join you.“

Although Mycroft sees that on the backs of the heads of the illustrated spectators Alex has added a scramble of letters that spell out _f-o-r  k-i-t-t-y,_ he quietly recommends the drawing to a certain editorial chief, reasoning that it would take _Sherlock Holmes_ to notice the hidden text -- and _let him notice it._  

Later, after he and Alex have returned from a meeting on “sustainable input in the context of transformative agendas” (during which Mycroft seems not to have breathed at all; he’d come only to hand off the drawing and observe the nervous ticks of one participant), his icy rage seems to ease off, leaving him pale and silent.  The friends part ways to change in their rooms for a luncheon at the Swiss Consulate General (a red stone corner building in a residential setting; they are in danger of being  _too_ punctual for comfort).  When Alex taps at Mycroft’s door and enters, his kitty does not explain what is eating at him aside from hissing, “Paralysing ignorance,” before Alex can open his mouth to ask any more. 

“Darling,” Alex tells him, “I would like your help with my tie.  Now, in an hour and a half, nothing more could have been said on...you know.  Transformative sustainability of a dynamic agenda.”

“You’ve just articulated a _new_ area of inquiry for them, in fact,” Mycroft mutters, as he takes the ends of Alex’s blue silk tie in his hands and sets to work.  His nostrils are flared as he grumbles, “There is a PhD to be written on the _shuffle_ of those key words in _the manufacture of European agendas_.  Well.  A memo would do, but numerous national scholarship funds would be eliminated if not for a steady supply of constructive _topics_.”

“Well.  Fortunately it is not your lot to assign relevance to them, then one would struggle -- Lord, what -- are -- I wonder what shuffle you have just made of my tie,” Alex sighs, as his friend tucks a very short end of it up to the side of his neck and folds his collar down tightly over it, for him.  The artist steps away and approaches a longer mirror by the door.  He has a perfect trinity knot.  “Oh, it’s -- gorgeous!”

“Something _you_ can carry off.  Shall we?”

“How will I -- remove it?  Ah, I see, a trap...”

“Short end first,” Mycroft replies, betraying no amusement, though he does brush Alex’s arm gently before they open the door and leave.

***

Alex learns during a much-needed early-afternoon siesta (stretched out on Mycroft’s hotel bed) that his drawing will be on the front cover of _Der Spiegel_ (accompanying a block of texts on the changing significance of international tribunals in the face of so-named ‘online popular justice’) by the end of the week.  “But,” Alex exclaims, sitting up suddenly and trembling with excitement.  “When --“

“The mid-morning drivel was well-attended,” Mycroft replies, as he pulls Alex’s shirt-tails from his trousers.

“It wasn’t even _coloured_.  Or finished, for that matter.  It was about _right now_ , nothing more.  It _says_ mmm --” Alex moans, because his stomach is being kissed very softly.  “ _Kitty_.”

“You _caught_ the spirit of yesterday’s hearing.  For Europe.” Mycroft’s hand ghosts down Alex’s lower back, pushing his trousers down enough to allow for a more tactile, possessive nudge in his direction. 

“Remove this knot,” Alex says, gesturing at his throat.  “And _everything else_.”

 “Alexander,” Mycroft says.  “This afternoon it was determined that I will go to Geneva in four days, I’ll have a meeting of extreme importance which may involve a second location and I cannot take you there, but.  But.  Listen.  Are you listening?”

“I’m trying to but you are bringing me -- round.  Geneva?”

“Hush.  We have two hours before we leave for London.  You’re shaking and that will not do.  Patience.”

“When you know what I want.  Come _here_.”

“You’ll be avoiding London _following_ the publication of that drawing, for two nights and three days, at Lake Constance.  The first night you will be alone but I will join you there in the morning, and the second night will be ours.  By then there may be something to discuss.”

“Oh -- really?” Alex smiles with sunny adoration all over his face.

“It is _not_ what you seem to expect.”

“What do I seem to expect,” Alex says, leaning forward and catching Mycroft’s lip in his teeth for a moment.  “Now.”

***

Sherlock finds a newspaper sheet quartered neatly and tucked under one rubber footpad of his microscope in the morning, once he has meandered with a long yawn into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.  _A tousled brunet in dire condition, nude, near death, strapped by ropes to the back of a horse -- attacked from all sides by wolves_ \-- _a punishment -- neat._ He props the paper nearby as he sips and rests his lips at the rim of his mug, letting them warm in the centres.  _Mazeppa_.  _Appeals to him,_ he thinks, and the corner of his mouth twitches as he decides whether he is meant to reenact ( _after what crime?_ ) or merely admire the scene, captioned:  _“Torment of ‘Byronic hero’ Ivan Mazeppa, whose ill-fated liaison with a Countess led to savage punishment: he was banished to almost certain death in the wild steppes.  Oil painting, Horace Vernet (1826).”_

His soldier emerges from the bathroom, neck reddened and covered in a few beads of water; Sherlock fancies they are waiting for him; one streaks over John’s collarbone.  _Most workable path for a tongue._   “I’m in trouble,” Sherlock remarks, nodding toward the newspaper.

“Yup.  The Lord George Byron exhibit ended yesterday and we never went, love.”

“Exhibit.” Sherlock shrugs.  “Lord who?”

“’Gondola man’?  You went -- with that architect?  A counterfeit letter there?  Personal effects of one of England’s finest writers?” 

“Mhm.  Not fine.  Hastily-forged, written with a contemporary writing instrument, played on the scruples of the museum workers involved, nothing of note, true.  Food stains on the original manuscript, apparently not uncommon.”  Cloud-gray eyes turn and scan over John’s throat once more.  _Fewer, now.  One asking to be stopped, clinging to his neck at the jugular --_

“Heh, sure, at the V&A.  See that?  Liszt wrote a piece about that bloke, maybe you know it.  Did you see this picture when you were there?” John asks.

“Nnnnope.”

John sniffs.  “Wh -- oh, what’s all that red stuff?  Stinks -- open something.  We need to open a window...”

“Fibre resiliency tests, three acid-etched polymers, one of which has dissolved.  It will need to be discarded,” Sherlock answers, his eyes flicking over John’s robe, as if searching for a weak point in the stitching.  “No tying,” he remarks.

“No?” John moves closer and puts a hand around Sherlock’s neck from behind and pulls his head back gently.  He leans down and settles his lips over Sherlock’s -- hot from the mug, giving the impression of fever, not unlike his eyes, which are already glazed with growing distraction as he slowly re-opens them to look for another cue.  “Gorgeous,” John murmurs.

“As I said,” Sherlock answers, pulling at the sash on John’s robe.  “No.  Tying.”

John laughs inaudibly, his stomach flexing under Sherlock’s hand. 

“Mm?”

“I’ve been doing a little reading about the one on the horse.  Got himself in a bit of trouble.  Too.”

“So it appears.”

“Come back to bed, love.  I have a story for you.”

“Four minutes,” Sherlock tells him, though it is an arbitrary number; he chides himself internally for it.  He has one more thing he’d like to finish on the table, true, but even the coffee has been reduced to depths of irrelevance that point toward being in John’s arms in three and a half.  At the most.

“There’s a -- God, you’re.  Come, put your head here.” 

John ( _beautiful man_ ) is letting his terry swathing ease itself open just at mid-thigh, which he pats as a destination for Sherlock’s head.  _Face.  Mmm._ “Story goes like this.  Oi, watch -- ah, yeah, there.”  They settle in and John rolls his back against two pillows behind.  "So.  There was a dark-haired, wild noble who hung about the fringes of the court of a king, made a nuisance of himself, because he was bloody bright, making others round him look a bit tarnished and dull, lackluster, and they didn’t like it.  They started to see themselves for what they were.  In fact, he made them feel like clods.  Yeah.  And rightfully so, because they were.  Clods.  But nobody had the courage to sort of point it out like he did.”

Sherlock sighs and seems to dismiss the analogy to the Yard as too obvious to be of true interest, and John continues.

“So.  One day he is crossed by someone close and accused and he doesn’t know how all the rumours have started or who spread them.  But he sees a few culprits, enemies of the court, bloody hypocrites, and they’re sort of laughing to themselves as he is seized and dragged outside, and before he can fight the attackers off, he’s pushed down, beaten, stripped, and tied like a animal for slaughter to a mad, unbreakable horse.  And they wind up that stallion, give him one last kick, and it takes off across the countryside, carrying the man along with it, and they run through rivers, meadows, forests.  Pulling him every which way.  The pain is as bad as the humiliation whenever they run by someone who laughs and stares, nobody tries to help, they can see it’s a sort of punishment.  Soon he doesn’t see any more people, though.  Night falls.  Dawn breaks.  Three times.  He’s starving.”  (Sherlock hums.)  “It’s like a nightmare.  That doesn’t end.  Soon he doesn’t recognise the terrain, or even the stars overhead.  He is being carried far from anywhere he knows.  The horse wants to throw him off.  Tries to push him off under branches or wash him off as he runs through river water.  And the man is falling apart, inside, they're trying to break him completely, and his body is bruised and torn all over.  Just.  The horse can stop for a drink or to graze but the man can’t move.  Naked, open to everything, cold, sun.  Exposed.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock doesn’t need more invitation to lift a fold of terry away from that thigh, as if it were interfering with his breathing -- which is picking up.

“They survive an attack by wolves, nearly drown in a river together, come to at the edge of the water.  It’s a fight for life.  Hmmm.”  John blinks and swallows.  Sherlock is letting his nose trail up John’s lap, tickling, his breath warm.  The grassiness here is in scent, alone -- one of the first beads of John, aroused.  _Missed.  The cloth must go,_ Sherlock decides.  “The horse reaches a stretch of plains.  It stops to graze and rest.  The man hears someone approaching -- offering something to the horse, to bring it closer.  He sees the glint of a knife blade out of the corner of his eye, and then he feels his bounds being cut off.  His throat is too parched and he is too exhausted to thank his rescuer.  A country doctor, out for a long walk, who’s thinking he’s never been -- _Jesus_ \-- luckier.  In his life.  The injured man collapses.  As soon as he tries to put his feet on the ground.  And the doctor takes him home.  Uhm.  Yeah.  They talk more and more, and the doctor understands the man can’t ever really go back again -- doesn’t want him to, though -- can you -- love -- yeah -- yeah --"

“Thus the man expresses gratitude for years to come,” Sherlock tells John, pushing the feathery skin aside from the tip of John’s cock and letting John watch himself sink into his phoenix’s mouth.  And forget himself enough to push rhythmically against that warm tongue.   _Would cut you free,_ he thinks.   _Find you, free you._  

***

Rights to _Character Assassination, Nr 1_ are bought by the two largest international press agencies; several Northern European papers seem reluctant to publish it, arousing the criticism of independent and online media; the Biblical reference taken from the second book of Mark and the ironic absence of a responsible healing body set off a secondary storm of commentary about Europe’s moral erosion.  (Alex’s honorariums will be discreetly funneled to the wronged prisoner’s wife and daughter, both of whom have a congenital atrial defect and live without running water in their flat.)  An appeal (to appease the press) is hastily drafted in reserve. 

The artist himself remains unavailable for comment; he is at a boutique hotel overlooking Lake Constance, being kissed and fussed over, until he finally asks reluctantly over a very late supper in shirtsleeves if the mess he’s made of Strasbourg is really all right.  He and Mycroft are discreetly asked if they are unwell, several minutes afterward -- due to Mycroft’s hilarity, which, as he explains, has hit him at the wrong time -- “All laughing in Switzerland is expected to end promptly at ten p.m,” he says, snickering the entire way out the door, and Alex can only laugh with him, in shock.

Retreating to their room brings many visual delights; it is finished in slate and blond woods and has an unusually large window with a clear view of the stunning _Bodensee_ and distant lights streaming and wavering over the water’s surface; craggy Alps stand off in the distance, wrapped in thin clouds.  The men linger side by side and look at it quietly until Alex puts an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and breaks him out of one of his sudden melancholy reveries; he cannot be left to them, long. 

“Even given such a beautiful setting, and rather unlimited distractions,” the artist says, his eyes tracing over the entire structure of his friend’s brooding face before moving lower.  “I only see you, wherever I am.”  Alex reaches out for Mycroft's shirt. 

“Ah -- we’ll step away from the window,” Mycroft says, as though he has come up for air.

“Darling.  There’s something I want to --”

He isn’t given a chance to finish what might have become a far greater declaration.  Mycroft is pulling him away from the glass pane, into the bedroom (they are finally sharing a bed, tonight, all night, for the first time) and crushing their lips together in a stormy, sudden outburst of emotion.  Alex moans and turns his head away to breathe.  “You’re quite wild, tonight.”

“Yes.  And this,” Mycroft says, leading Alex down onto the bed and indicating his beautiful blue shirt, “interferes with four of my most immediate desires.”

“Incinerate it,” Alex replies, and starts chuckling.

“It’s a favourite,” Mycroft tells him.  “It can interfere.”

“Promise to persist,” Alex murmurs.  “Do you know --?”  The artist hesitates again; in his mind, he is back on the pedestal at the Brazilian tailor’s.  The fear of refutation is greater than he is.  He switches gears as he turns to lay more on his side, so that he can better meet the quick gaze that seems to have docketed his internal struggle and moved on to anticipate something more tangible.  A caress, for instance, over Mycroft’s arm and back, to bring him closer, until their eyes begin to blur at the proximity and the first quiver of need makes their pulses pick up.  To two men who had come to accept that their hearts might never quicken at a kiss, or a word (or even a smile) so much, it still feels unreal -- which might explain why they pause, savour and interrupt at their own paces, to think, and check, from time to time.  To them, is it neither out of place nor inconsiderate.  Quite the opposite.  And if they had seemed inseparable after the Equinox party, or after John’s and Sherlock’s wedding, it has changed again:  after their trip to Strasbourg Mycroft has wanted Alex at his side even more, and this night is an attempt to close another bit of distance, caused by the stay in Geneva. 

(It does not go smoothly, as neither man is accustomed to falling asleep with another person in the room, much less so close; furthermore, Alex knows that he probably still talks in his sleep, mostly dreaming of family members -- usually his brother, and when exhausted, his mother.) 

“Mycroft,” Alex ventures, petting his friend’s sideburn.  “You said you would have something to tell me?” 

"Ah."   Mycroft swallows and nods, assessing his position.  "True." 

Mycroft doesn’t interpret Alex's affection for flattery or manipulation, anymore; instead, he consumes it and burns with it to where he feels intense anxiety over losing it, such that he could resort to mad things (and here, again, he looks at his own brother with a changed perspective; were anything to touch his little dove, a bleeder with a heart that is sometimes noisier than his awful old wristwatch, he would be capable of God knows what). 

"Whatever it is, I really can't wait."

Alex’s lack of cynicism and irony toward the man he cares for, even when they disagree (and they do, substantively and morally, at times seriously) already has the effect of neutralising some of Mycroft’s impatience and worries.  Now is no exception, he knows.  He counts on it.  He exhales.  “Alexander.”

“Yes, darling.”

“I am presently -- ahmm.  Apologies.  This is not something I had planned to say, under these -- circumstances.”

“What's happened?”

Mycroft’s eyes have suddenly gone dark and cold.  “A signal has come my way.”

“What sort?”

Mycroft runs his hand over Alex's shoulder.  “A reliable source," he says carefully, licking his thin lips,  "Claims a ‘thrice airborne blight’ is coming to Europe.  The wording is from the Arabic, though once translated, from Syrian.  The choice of the word ‘blight’ may be imprecise.”

“Oh, dear.  Is this what you've -- what's been --”  

“ _Listen_.  If I asked you to leave London, for instance, I expect you would listen to my instructions.”

“Well. I suppose.”

“ _No_.” Mycroft stares fixedly into Alex's eyes. “Your word. That you would listen.”

“I would, I promise.” Alex’s heart has started clicking loudly.

“I’m disturbing you,” Mycroft says.

“Yes, you are,” Alex replies, tipping his head up proudly.  

"Understandable."

“Well.  That wasn’t really what I wanted to hear.”

“No.  But understand me.  Your assurance that you will listen,” Mycroft replies, pulling Alex to his chest protectively, “means more than most other pillow declarations.  Of the sort you expected to hear.”

“And you know what I expected to hear.”

“How it’s happened that I’ve lost my head entirely over you."

"For instance."   _I love you, I love you, I love you --_  

Mycroft realises that he owes as much to Alex; he tries to push visions of poison clouds, tainted water and viruses from his head, and takes a deep breath. He puts a hand in Alex's hair. "Routine vetting surrounding the circumstances of your association with my brother led to interest, and after the mission in Vienna, fascination.  You could not be overlooked."

"Mmm," sighs Alex, leaning into Mycroft's touch even more.  

"Your wit, courage and fairness set you apart.  Again and again.  So, I stood off until it was apparent that events would inevitably remove my brother and John from London, and determined I would look after you.  At the very least, anonymously.”

Alex pulls back and stares.  “Anonymously.  Never.” 

“It was on impulse that I spoke to you at the _Glen Burns_.  I’d intended to observe you for a moment and leave.  I decided to challenge you and test your reaction.  For as much pain as you must have been in, you were quick.  You intrigued me.  I might have resisted inviting you in for tea, as well.  Because soon I could not resist you, at all.  By the Equinox I was lost. I could not accept the idea that you would not be mine.  At least, to admire, from whatever proximity you would tolerate.”

Alex tries to smile, though his eyes are suddenly spilling over so that he cannot hope to see much of anything.  “You started everything far sooner,” he chokes.  “Didn't you. If your brother had not picked at me for two months over it, I’d have let it go far longer.  You see, I am aware that you told him about the mitral defect, and that _you_ must have dug out files on my Mum, that she was given too much anesthetic  and could not be -- revived.  An error.  She -- was very sensitive to it.  Very.  As am I.  Well.  The anesthesiologist thought it was funny that I’d been admitted with a pile of files, but apparently it _became_ useful.  That was _you_. The second nurse, too. From you.”

“Another confession, now.  I passed by to speak to someone at the hospital just before my brother arrived to see you.  A bit of feather smoothing.”

“Did you!”

“I looked in on you, and when you noticed me at the door, you took me for the devil himself.  And told me off,” Mycroft declares, and grins.

“Oh  -- I -- I’m so sorry -- oh, _Lord_ \--“ Alex claps his hands over his eyes. 

“No, no, it was quite amusing.  You then mistook my brother for your priest, they said.”

“Gracious Peter!  He didn’t tell me that!  What did I say to you?”

“You were furious.  You made a fist and said, _'Tu autem effugare, diabole!  Appropinquabit enim judicium Dei'!”_ *

“I -- should be shot.”

“And I did leave promptly, rather impressed.  As any devil would be under the circumstances, really.”  By now Mycroft's chest is shaking with laughter.

Alex squeaks and sobs, “ _I tried to exorcise you_.  How could you ever speak to me again!"  

“How could I not,” Mycroft retorts, quirking a brow.  "I already knew where I stood."

_"Mycroft!"_

“You will respond?  You’re not saying _much_.”

“I’m -- surprised.  Mercy, how could I --” Alex shakes his head and buries his face in Mycroft's shoulder.

“May nothing more surprise us.”  The tale, for now, seems to be over.

***

_[Search string: pale_rider - tweeds + magnificent_sword + little_death OR la_petit_mort] 0 RECORDS FOUND]_

__________________________

_* Latin text:_

_And you, devil, be gone!  For the judgement of God is at hand!_

________________________


	52. Lisbon

“Have you seen it?” Sherlock asks over breakfast, flipping his laptop around to show a news article broaching the subject of growing religious tensions over political prisoners, emblazoned with Alex’s Strasbourg drawing.

This capricious and restless phoenix, though pleased at his friend’s success, is also piqued that Alex is gone _yet again_ ; he is currently at an international summit in Edinburgh, although he has just confessed to being quite knackered -- having undergone intense training _(intercultural assertiveness and mixed diplomatic protocols -- what is it all for, 'Kitty'?_ Sherlock would like very much to know). 

“That.  Yeah,” John remarks.   “Brutal.”

Sherlock’s lips curl.  “Well, yes, after all, it’s Alex’s.”

“His?  I’ve seen that around, there was even a satire of it yesterday but with four European leaders on the bed.  Seriously?” John gulps down the rest of his tea and exhales noisily.  “Haaa, so.”

“We’ll leave in fifteen,” Sherlock says, slapping shut the laptop.

“Excited?” John ventures.  “A little?”

“Mm, about what.”  Sherlock finally cracks a one-thousand-word smile. 

Today they are meeting the Slovakian family, in Brixton, to sign a sales agreement on the Eastbourne property.  John stands and picks up their plates; he leans down and kisses Sherlock’s lavender-scented head (there had been a very satisfying shared shower, a bit earlier on; John’s turn -- so to speak -- may shape part of their afternoon once they get back, though he has a gleam in his eye and a swagger that suggests he has other ideas; Sherlock elects to wind him up publicly and see where it takes them -- _we are married --_ ).  “Can’t wait, either.  Heh.”

***

A gentleman has swept up from nowhere, in a deceptively modest brown suit, with heavy, gold-framed eyeglasses, chalky pale jowls and a high, balding cranium covered in steel-gray wisps -- beyond all of which Alex senses a challenging character; an exchange begins with a heavily accented statement during a break at the economic summit:  “As for the satire, Mister -- Nussbaum, is it?  Of the Tribunal?  Would you care to say why your particular pen-stab at the European Court was necessary?”

“Yes.  Pardon me,” Alex says in the official, impersonal tone he uses with Mycroft in public, and takes leave of him, eyes glittering.  “Sir.  We’d have only fifteen minutes but I’d like to hear _your_ perspective, as well.”  Alex gestures at an empty tea table.  “Shall we talk?”

 _Drink nothing whatsoever, eat nothing in their presence, stay away from the west side of the building, stay in my sight, the French protocols, don’t ask --_ Mycroft has been edgy and quick-tempered all day, yet he does nothing to stop Alex from leaving with his new interlocutor; in fact, he is pleased, but will not show it in a single muscle.

Alex returns and locks eyes with Mycroft, who nods, once.  “I’d not realised,” Alex admits quietly, “who that was.  I didn’t recognise him at first.”

“You’ve made an impression,” Mycroft replies, simply.

“He mentioned that the Holy Father -- has -- has referred to -- it in passing.  In an interview.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft replies, glancing up as a nondescript, empty-eyed fellow (an intelligence chief) approaches for a word.

“Excuse me --“ Alex says, on cue, and nods.  “Gentlemen.”  He darts away to search for a toilet and try his damnedest to keep his body and mind together; just as Randall has taught him to do, he breathes out far longer than he breathes in, keeping the diaphragm flexed tight, which he is not accustomed to doing in everyday life, when he has sometimes gasped for _needing_ oxygen.  Then again, his everyday life is rapidly changing, and the tears pricking at the bridge of his nose now are the beginnings of only the latest panicky feelings of fullness and weakness at once.  _Am I really what you wanted, why have you chosen me, why -- Lord, oh, Lord, the Pope himself.  Help me stop this._

When he emerges, he know he will not be able to look at Mycroft right away, that the character of their relationship must be more than well hidden -- torturous at events like these, but he tries to make it into a sort of game, again, and he imagines himself as an elegant, mild-mannered agent with manifold interesting secrets -- and Mycroft as the man who stands aside and tells someone like ‘M’ what to do -- which he _is_ doing, at that very moment, though Alex does not know of it.  The artist looks at his watch and sighs; he would swear it is running slow, again.  But Sherlock and John, he thinks, have most certainly bought their house by now, and are celebrating it (as newlyweds should do); when he and Mycroft return to London, an opinion regarding the surveillance of that place will be reviewed.  He has put plenty of well-timed pestering and heart into that endeavour (as a best man should do, for newlyweds).

***

“This way,” John says, licking his lips and looking around as an industrial-weight metal fire door clicks shut behind him and Sherlock.  “There’s...a back way up to the roof, love.”

“Is -- there,” Sherlock pants, recovering from a delicious attack of wild kisses from John, who has pulled him into a building in the middle of Brixton, on a side street he’s never been on before; his soldier seems to have chosen it expressly for this afternoon.  ( _How?_ )

As if to answer several of Sherlock’s thoughts, John fills in, “Had a patient here -- bed bound, came a few times to give injections, and.  Nobody goes in there -- nnnn.” John is back at Sherlock’s lips for more.  He pulls Sherlock against himself hard and breathes into Sherlock’s mouth as he grasps the back of his friend’s head.  “You beautiful thing.  God, I want to come, what were you trying to do, in -- a coffee room, love --”

Sherlock nods and smiles against John’s cheek.  John picks up his hand and holds it against the bulge in his trousers.  “Making this wait, not good,” John urges, as his friend’s hand wanders over him, over and back, and his fingers go in for his zipper.  “You had to start it there -- couldn’t sign my bloody name -- nnnhhhnn -- yeah --”

Sherlock is running his palm in circles over the length of John’s cock through his flies and flicking his tongue down into his mouth.  They won’t go out on the roof -- there is a utility provider with offices three doors down that will have cameras pointing straight at it -- but Sherlock knows a fantasy when he sees one; John is sweating a bit on his brow and his thighs are hot.   

“Stairwell,” John says hoarsely, “Sit?” 

“I will.”

“Love -- hmm --“

“I think you need to have your way --“  Sherlock kisses each of John’s lips and sucks at the bottom one far more naughtily as John shoves himself against his palm, his pants damp enough with pre-come that Sherlock decides he’ll lap it off a bit for him, at the very least for show (John is very impatient).  And he drops to the second stair, his right side pressed to the cold wall. 

“Jesus,” John whispers, groping at his sac and pushing his cock up in the poor light.  “Love -- I’m --“

“And you’ve been wanting to pound my throat, soldier,” Sherlock says, letting his voice drop through the floor as he leans forward and lets his tongue trail over John.  “Just don’t let them _hear_.”

Easier said than done.  John is gasping and fucking into Sherlock’s lips, knuckles white as he grips a cold metal banister and hunches into that heat -- it seems to pull him down, making his knees a new centre of gravity.  Sherlock wraps an arm around his thigh from behind and lets his fingers work over John’s flexing arse, with just enough of a suggestion down between as to what he _would_ do -- in the absence of those clothes.  John shakes and groans; he is nearly there; one torturous break in rhythm and he chases after it, trembling, exploding and swearing under his breath, teeth bared.  _Little wolf._  There’s no time to smile, now.  Not yet.

 _Jesus Christ, I’m going to miss London._   “Love you,” John breathes against Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Oh God, I love you, that felt -- you’re amazing.”

***

Sherlock, unbeknown to John, has elevated ‘nesting’ to an art form, creating a schedule that will disconnect them from London in the most efficient manner he can dream up, namely a quick succession of cancellations, transfers and services (not to mention changes in subscriptions); he analyses hundreds of current and past contacts and ranks their importance, deciding who will receive oral, written or zero notification of their plans.  For nearly everyone save a dozen or so discreet people, he settles on the zero option.  Though he has not packed a single object yet, he lists boxes and numbers rooms (from and to), in preparation for the arrival of Bruno, the scarred, silent mover (and his rail-skinny, gum-munching half-brother, who goes by ‘Pom’).  He collects contacts for roofing and roofers.  He arranges cleaners.   He chooses appliances and furnishings, scheduling a scenario for a succession of deliveries ranked by frequency of use before having bought anything at all; he bookmarks dozens of photographs for John’s perusal (moments to obtain John’s maximum pliancy during decision-making are planned, as well).  He plans to go to the house seven or possibly nine days before John to receive said deliveries and orchestrate operations on that side. 

John has few possessions, Sherlock sees, the majority being kitchen utensils, redundant clothes and spy novels.  The panic sets in when he understands that for space reasons he will need to reduce the volume of his paper “clutter” (as John calls many of Sherlock’s ‘treasures’) by more than a third.  He shops for a compact scanner and auxiliary storage devices with an elevated pulse rate.  He will need to negotiate for John’s armchair, as well, with the rather impersonal (resentful) Mrs. Turner, who manages some affairs concerning the flats in the building these days, albeit in as few words as possible.

***

Once back in London, Alex has called for Rodney and gone to pick up his finished jacket from Frederick’s Jermyn Street atelier; he is amazed to discover that there is a crow-black merino suit waiting for him as well -- from Sherlock -- close-cut, with a single button (as Sherlock often wears, himself).  It is lined in a startling, chicory blue satin.  Alex is speechless (he avoids wearing black but likes it immediately). He isn't sure how he should reciprocate.  He slips into it at the atelier and gives his compliments to the oddly-silent tailor, who still does not know what to make of Sherlock's 'funerary life' remark.  “I suppose I’ll need it,” Alex says, and in his excitement, his eyes have teared up; Frederick is even more bothered.  “I’m sorry, I need to sit down,” the artist murmurs.  “I hardly know what to say.”

Alex has had a difficult several days. Much of it has been spent cultivating artificial, diplomatic and stoic postures under Mycroft’s scrutiny, which while affected (for the benefit of people around them), still feels like a wall, until they can be alone and tear it all down again together, in a flurry of kisses and secrets.  Another issue has arisen: the security committee has taken poorly to the Eastbourne move and insists on continuing camera surveillance indoors; a compromise has been reached regarding Mycroft’s perimeter focus but tensions remain high; two members appear to want appeasement for another, unrelated matter which Mycroft refuses to talk about. 

                _What a lovely thought, Sherlock, thank you!  Alex_

_Something for Lisbon.  SH_

_OK but I’m not going to Lisbon !!!!:))) Alex_

_Not yet.  SH_

Alex’s pleasure over the suit is short-lived, however.  Some hours later, Mycroft’s eyes fall on Sherlock’s gift in the car, and Alex asks, all innocence and imploring openness,  if they will soon be going to Lisbon.  

Without warning, that powerful character and mind -- so magnetic to Alex -- both appear to have slammed closed and collapsed, internally and instantly, pulling the man’s emotions into a black spiral, from which only rage can return.  Alex has never seen Mycroft this angry before and is completely unnerved by what he has in front of him.

“Kitty,” Alex says.  “Have I said --“

_“Silence!”_

***

“While we’re talking.  Uhm.  Here, I don’t -- look.  What you do is not, uhm.  Not implying anything.  Just.”  John scrolls through his contact list on his phone and yanks a pen out of his coat pocket.  “My contacts in London are about to shrink. A lot.  But I know this doctor, and if you need someone more sort of sympathetic to -- you know.  A more sympathetic ear.  To -- certain issues.”

“Oh?  Who is she?  He?” 

Alex is seated in the back of Mycroft’s car, which is parked at one end of Baker Street.  He had been asked to wait for John.  In the meantime, John had indeed come along, in a march, down the sidewalk -- his step stuttering a bit when he’d noticed the car.  Alex had opened the door and invited him to sit in for a quick chat.

John has just noted that the artist’s hands seem to be shaking, though they are folded demurely in his lap.  He swallows. “Nick -- Bander.  A cardiologist.  Not that you don’t have a few of those lined up.  But.  If you need an opinion and you need it sort of -- for yourself.  He has a lot of people on Warfarin and knows what goes with that.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you, John.  We’d have to talk about choices that don’t exist, however.”

“Yeah, I know.  Saw your drawing.  From the court case.  Were you at that ruling?”

“Yes, we went to see it, Mycroft had anticipated that decision.  Oh, John.  The devastated looks on some of the faces.  I’ll never forget it.”

“Yeah.”  John nods. 

“It felt important to record something about it.”

“I like that kind of drawing, actually.  It makes you think about how much hasn’t really changed.  I mean, that’s what art does, for me.  If it’s something to think about.  Without a record it just just sort of goes by, and there’s no sign anyone ever thought about it.  Photos don’t do it.  It’s a gift, you know.  To be able to show things, like that.”  

“Well, you write, John.  You’ve put your work out in public, actually published it for people to read, which takes nerves of steel, really, because you’re talking about real people, yourself, events, and giving people a chance to see it all, even criticise the _way_ you present it.”

“Maybe.  Sometimes.” 

“Your stories are so fun to read, though.  I would swear there’s a bit of Fleming in there.”

“Sure, yeah.  I started writing that crap for therapy after they sent me home,” John remarks.

“Really?  And look what you managed to turn it into,” Alex replies.  “The only crap is in the comment sections.  Which I fear are edited, at that?”

“Yeah.  You don’t want to know.”  John looks thoughtfully at his hands, which are also folded in his own lap, mirroring Alex’s tension.  “When Sherlock started drawing, just, suddenly, I had no idea what he was doing it for.  Actually, I still don’t know what that was.  I mean, it was sort of like he wanted to reach out.  Some of it was like that.  And I didn’t see any of it right away.  I’m not really attuned, you know.  But.  Some things can just go right by. And.  You can’t even catch on and there’s so much going on in there, you wouldn't see otherwise.  So.  Uhm.  Should we -- go up?”

“They’re talking,” Alex says, carefully.  “Something has happened.”

“Look.  I don’t know what the problem is, today, Sherlock’s not -- himself.  Has the committee met?”

“Yes.  They have, twice, and I’m not sure he’s going to be pleased.  But something else has happened.  Mycroft is absolutely livid.  And I don’t know why.”

“What do you mean.”

“Sherlock -- ordered a suit for me.  And -- ”

“What?” John coughs quietly. 

“John.  In fact, he made an arrangement with his tailor of some sort.  They have an arrangement, don't they.  Well.  I had no idea. I’d been measured for a different jacket for myself.” Alex gestures loosely toward the boot of the car.

“All right.  And?  What about it?” John crosses his arms.  “Mycroft is -- what.”

“Well.  It’s black, a beautiful black merino, and you see, I don’t tend to wear black if I don’t have to, I’m a bit silly that way, but it’s very elegant.  Quite honestly, useful, we go to numerous events now where I need to be quietly dressed.  But.  Sherlock said it was to wear to -- Lisbon.  And when Mycroft saw it, it’s lined a beautiful blue, and I said _Lisbon_ \-- well.  He put it away and looked absolutely mortal, John.  It was horrible.”

“Okay -- no idea, there. Black, blue.”  John clears his throat and licks at his lips.

“If there is history over it, I don’t feel comfortable as the medium of a commentary.”

“Sure, understood.” 

“If that’s what it is.  But something has hurt him.”

 _Hurt Mycroft.  Sure._   “Right.  Hmm.” 

“I realise there have been flash points, before, but it wasn’t from Mycroft’s side, this time, I’m positive of that.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll have a talk.  Sorry, I don’t know what’s got into him lately but there are some -- yeah.  I’ll ask.  Maybe it’s about the house.  You know.  Might be something about someone else.  And not even about you.” 

Alex’s eyes drop to John’s left hand, which is curling open and shut.  “I should hope not.  Shall I return the suit?  Your opinion comes first, on that.”

“No.  Not if you -- no.  No, it’s all right.  He does -- things, it means something to him, so.  Besides, you need it, like you said.”   _Shit.  Shit!_

“Fine, then.  Thank you.”

 _Breathe._  “You know, I’m starving.  I’m going up.  Ready?”

“I’m not sure, John.”


	53. A cleaving

John precedes Alex upstairs to the living room door and steps aside for him at the last minute.  The artist enters to find Mycroft and Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, about a yard apart.  Both brothers are flushed and tense, and it is clear they have been arguing forcefully.  Fortunately, Alex thinks, the fatal umbrella (with the inset bodkin) is leaned safely against the sofa, but he chooses to stand between it and Mycroft.  John, who has seen the elder Holmes in more loaded situations in years past, is startled to see how openly angry he looks.  As for Sherlock, he is all nervous energy, snickering a bit to himself.  He sets his restlessly-tapping fingertips on his hips and raises his eyebrows as if impatient with the proceedings from the start.

“Have you managed to resolve the matter you came to talk about, or should we give you more time?” Alex asks Mycroft, who has turned slightly to acknowledge their entrance with a symbolic, icy glance. 

“Go on, brother,” Sherlock prods.  “Resolve it.”

“What’s this about?” John asks, positioning himself very much like a referee, Alex notes, loose at the knees.

“This pathetic game is over.  It’s time to bring things to a state of conclusion,” Sherlock says.  “ _It didn’t work_.”

Mycroft doesn’t comment at all, merely observes his brother for another long, venomous moment.

Alex stands very straight, as if for an examination (or trial), hands folded in front of himself near the waist like a presenter, who is nonetheless uncertain who he should look at.  His ears are ringing; the traffic in the street below has drowned out the acceleration of the clicking sound that seems to resonate into his throat.  “Mycroft,” he says, “which game is he referring to?”

John seems to be shaping a question, as well, but Mycroft starts to speak:  “The bespoke suit my brother gave you refers to funerary arrangements.  Namely those of the former minister and diplomat, Feliciana Leonor Vargas - De Andrada, a woman of my acquaintance --”

“Acquaintance,” Sherlock haws to himself. 

Mycroft continues, “...who stepped into the path of a streetcar in Lisbon, on a steep incline, and was killed instantly.  As she had no surviving family, I arranged her burial.  And I chose a coffin, lined in blue.  In reference to her rare eye colour.”  He looks at Alex but his expression is inscrutable.  “Sherlock has expressed his concerns for your well-being, and wishes to warn you, in this fashion, that our relationship may end in tragedy.” 

“I see,” Alex replies, as his eyes go hot and his limbs go weak, for so many reasons at once he cannot even pause to account for them all.  He tries to focus on the moment at hand, and what can be salvaged in the next minute, while the four of them are still in one room, as rarely happens.  

John hisses.  Alex starts choosing his words and gazes at Sherlock, who is fidgety and seems to have grown less confident, as he begins picking up on John’s disgust; John, in an awful silence, has understood that Alex had not known a thing about the woman -- and connects something Sherlock has said about his brother driving people insane; he appreciates quite keenly what this ‘joke’ might be all about, now:  revenge for the surveillance, and ‘usurping’ his friend, among other things.  _Shit -- this goes deep._  He licks his lips nervously.  “God _damn_ it,” he says to Sherlock.  “Have some respect, his brother died in the street!”

Sherlock sniffs. 

“John, it’s unrelated,” Alex breaks in, quietly.  “Sherlock.  Look me in the eye, please.  Now.  This is the last time you will show such a blatant lack of respect toward your brother, while referencing me,” he says.  “This _cannot_ go on.  It hurts everyone in this room, and that is unacceptable, especially among us.  Imagine for a moment how much we all love you.  And then ask yourself if a statement of this sort was worth the pain you’ve caused your brother and the discomfort you’ve given your husband.  I, for one, cannot agree to the state of things.  _I cannot._   You -- you three, are _family_.  John?”

“Damned right.  Enough of this.  Mycroft, you?”

“Yes.” 

Mycroft’s exterior calm is beginning to disturb Alex, who wants nothing more than to take his hand and kiss it all over.  He regroups, instead.  “I want you to think about it,” Alex says to Sherlock, who shrugs.  “I see you do not wish to answer, now.  Mycroft, I would like to go home.”

“Of course,” Mycroft states.  And nods at John.

John nods too, mostly to himself.  “See you out,” he coughs.  He is having trouble breathing.

“Thank you,” Alex replies, watching John gulping for air with a sinking feeling in his stomach.  “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns and approaches the window and glares out at the buildings across the way, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

John goes down first, as he tends to, and Mycroft walks just in front of Alex, the sureness of whose footing he does not trust.

“John, are you all right?  I’m sorry --“ Alex starts to say.

“Look.  _You’re_ not apologising,” John says, shoving his key into the lock and turning around energetically to glare at them both.  “Don’t _even_ apologise, for anything.  Mycroft, get that through to him.  And work out how we’re going to fix this.  All right?  We’re not doing this shit anymore, I can’t deal with this, we need a plan.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft replies coldly.

John stares down at Mycroft’s ring and renews a certain (incorrect, but well-meaning) assumption.  “Sorry, for -- uhm.  I didn’t know.  About, uhm, that.  Sorry.”

“Alexander,” Mycroft says, exiting the foyer as Rodney emerges and opens the car door for Alex.

“Hmm.” John returns upstairs at full march.

“Your _friend_ ,” John roars at Sherlock, who is still glaring out the living room window, “ _is a fucking saint_.  You know that?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “The cameras are staying, John.  _In front of our house_.  Do you understand!”

“Fuck.  Great.  Well, they’re watching right now.  Look.  Was it worth dragging your friend down like that?  You were a complete _dickhead_ to him.  What are you doing.  Do you want to fuck everything up, now?  _Now?_ ”

Sherlock scowls at John’s critical stance and retorts, “He’s an idiot.  He should know better.  He won’t listen.” 

“Oh.  Oh, I see.  Nobody should be happy?  Clever.  That’s bloody brilliant.  Or is it just that your _brother_ shouldn’t?”  John is wound up tight, now.  He nods and pants a little.  “Yeah, yeah.  It’s -- weird, okay?  It’s weird.  Them, together.  But.  Maybe that’s what they need.  Maybe.  And so far you can’t say that that bloke is disloyal to you, ever.  At all!  Look.  Perfect example.  See, if he showed how he felt about that woman, and -- that stunt of yours -- “  John grins nervously -- “and said how you hurt _him -- a lot_ \-- your brother would have _flipped_ out even more, just now.”

“Who cares what he thinks, he can go to hell.”  Sherlock is pale and shaking with anger.

“You planned all that.  That’s -- just.  You had no right to get in and pull out all that shit.  It’s _not your problem_ who your brother was with, if it was a woman, if she did that on purpose, killed herself maybe, plus -- if he even decides to talk about what happened to her --“ John is yelling, now.  “It’s between _them_ , and not _you two_.  And using Alex like that, giving him a -- a -- snake in a bag like that, acting like it’s a present, just for -- _getting at Mycroft_.  How!  _Alex lost his brother_.  In an accident, in the street!  How could you make that sort of -- comparison!  That’s so wrong!  Haven’t you learned anything?” 

“J --“

“Shut up.  I can’t believe you have it in you to do that!  Come on!  Things were starting to get better.  And you can’t let go.  Grow the _fuck_ up!”

“N --”

“No, _you’re listening to me_.  We’re leaving.  Aren’t we?  We are?  Right.  So?  Time to burn bridges?  Is that where we’re at?  Burning London?  Burning people?  How many _real_ friends have we got, now?  Hmm?  Have you looked around lately?  Looked ahead a little?  _Who is going to be there!_   Who!  Nobody!  And I wonder why!  Think!”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.  “J -- mmm.” 

“That bloke’s had enough.  Hear me?  Enough.  Do you know what he lives with?  Do you?  He can’t even punch you like you deserved to get, without subcutaneous haemorrhaging _up to the wrist and the risk of embolism!_   And you’re sewing him _funeral clothes?_   And do you actually think Alex is going to get _sicker_ because of _Mycroft?_   Are you blind?  They’re together, deal with it.  And today, tonight, tomorrow, if he’s sick, it’s going to be because of _you_.”

“B --“

“Hmm.  Damn it, all I know is this.  _You_ are going to knock it the hell off with these mind games, _right now_.  That’s a _fucking_ order!”

***

Alex is certainly not the only one who is intensely upset this evening, as it happens, though Sherlock has chosen to close himself in his room with his laptop to lick his wounds and John has retreated to his room upstairs with sandwiches; for the time being, no one shall be the wiser as to who is most shaken at Baker Street.

At Great Peter Street, Mycroft sits adjacent to his unnerved friend with his fingers loosely steepled at his lips, aware that while much of his brother’s antipathy is his own doing over the years (old scores, after all, still count) he cannot accept a second of it in the form he sees in front of him.  “Alexander,” he finally says.  “My papers are at the house, by now.  Come.  I have a bit of urgent reading, I reckon an hour and half of it, no more,” Mycroft tells him, rising from his seat. 

Alex raises his head and stands, too.  “Kitty.  Whatever happened, I don’t believe you caused it, some decisions are quite momentary and out of character,” he says anxiously, not wishing to sound as knowledgeable in that regard as he actually is, “And despair is the worst guide -- “

“It is,” Mycroft says, biting his tongue as Alex puts an arm around his back and rests his graying head against his collar.  He has rarely felt as out of control as he does now -- even further-flung than when he’d redrawn a certain part of his life, at the _Glen Burns_ , under hidden stairs.

“I simply don’t understand,” Alex says, with that sort of emotionally-precarious earnestness that is all his own, “how anyone could ever want to leave you behind.”

“Choice,” Mycroft replies.  But they both know it is not that simple.  He has lurched inside at Alex’s claim.  _How anyone could ever want_.  It is a beautiful gift, not unlike being called _generous_ , for the first time, by anyone.  He moves away a bit and looks at Alex, very intently, with his impossibly weighty eyes, assessing him and considering what he can give back. 

“And nobody can convince me you _caused_ anyone to go mad who wasn’t already suffering from another illness,” Alex adds, gently.

Mycroft takes in a sharp breath and declares, all at once,  “Just as I’m not convinced you caused your brother David to step in front of a lorry.”

An appalling sound, closer to a howl than anything else, is the only response from Alex. 

“He was distracted by someone else,” Mycroft tells him.  “That is the truth.”

“ _Don’t!_ ” Alex cries, stepping away and waving his hands in front of himself.  “Please, no, no, for the love of God.” 

“Hush!  Of course you blame yourself, and quite needlessly.  Listen to me.”

“Darling, I -- _shouted at him_ \-- “ 

“Pay attention.  You were _not_ the last person who rang him that day, and he was not agitated by anything you’d said.  He laughed, just after he spoke to you, and took a second call.”

_“Nnnnhhhh!”_

_“Listen!”_

“ _Gracious Mother, don’t -- !_ ”

“I’ve seen his billing records.  And footage from two cameras the police were not privy to.  The last caller’s name was Monica Dillard.”

“M - onica!  What?”

“And you were nearly an uncle.  But it was not to be.  Your loss was sudden and enormous.  All lives end,” Mycroft says in Alex’s ear, and kisses his cheek lingeringly.  “But I know as well as you do, that their importance does not.”

 _Generous, generous, generous._ “It doesn’t, no.  Ever.  Ever.”

“You’ll rest.  Think.  Perhaps we’ll still salvage some of the evening, later on.  Come along.”

“I --“

“Don’t talk, now.  Medications and a shirt.  The black merino will do.  We have to be at Whitehall by nine tomorrow morning, events regarding a certain fifteen-mile borderland are taking an interesting and dangerous turn.”

***

“I’m quite convinced you care for me,” Alex remarks later, during a subdued supper at Mycroft’s house.  And he finally smiles for the first time in several hours. 

“You are also convincing in that regard,” Mycroft replies.  And he smiles back.  “You still have questions, I see.  Fire at will.”

“Mhm.  When will you take me upstairs and make love to me with those wicked hands of yours?”

Mycroft is now in danger of blushing, and it is not possible to blame the wine, yet.  “Very soon.  But that’s not all you have on your mind, disappointingly.  Ask.”

“Is that ring on your finger in memoriam of the woman who died in Lisbon?”

“No.  It is the moral equivalent of the mark on your abdomen.”

“I see.”  Alex raises a brow.  “Well, kitty.  If you ever decide to remove yours, perhaps I will remove mine?”

 _If only it were that simple.  If only._ “Ah....” 

***

“Sherlock.  Can I come in?  Love, open up.”  John is standing outside the bedroom door, having decided he should check on his phoenix after not hearing a sound for a few hours.  “We’re not going to bed angry.  Right?”

“No.”

“No, what!”

After a few more seconds, the door swings open and Sherlock flops back on their bed.

He picks up his laptop and shows John a black and white photograph of an older, heavily-moustached man with grey, longish hair; his heavy, black brows obscure sharp, mirthful eyes.

"Who is that?"

“A diamond cutter from Antwerp.  Anatol idolises him, in fact, he’s legendary, from a long line of master diamond cutters.  He was present at an event unrelated to his trade, standing within earshot of me, a number of years ago.” 

“Uh, yeah?” 

“I heard him, as he described his approach to raw stones, having cut many of the great coloured diamonds in recent decades.”

_“And?”_

“And.”  Sherlock sets the computer aside and stares down at his hands.  “Well.  His uncanny talent for obtaining the perfect refraction of light in an individual stone given its inclusions, is of interest.  But.  You see.  John."

"What." 

"He is sought for his eyes, first, and he _looks_ at a stone for months, _before_ he ever cleaves it and when he finally does, often with a tool he has made himself, for just one stone, he strikes perfectly, with very little waste, bringing out the beauty of each diamond in a completely new way.  When he mentioned that he’d sat and conversed with a sky blue stone for eight months, about how it wanted to look someday, his interlocutor _laughed_.  Laughed!  Idiot.” 

“Hmmm,” John answers.  “Reminds me of someone,” he says, putting an arm around Sherlock and letting him put his head on his shoulder.  “Not the idiot, the uncanny talent, there.”

“No.  No.”

John goes quiet.  _What’s happening --?_

“Do you see what they are?”

“What, love.” 

“When Mycroft acts,” Sherlock explains quietly, and tensely, “it is that precise, all-risking strike.  Considered at length, with care that is excruciating to the ordinary person.  Most often, with a custom-made device for that single hit.”

“Sounds about right, yeah.” 

“It is.  And the waste?  Varies.  According to the circumstances and how many people are -- or are not -- useful to what he aims to craft.  Which is an object of great price, for an unnamed commissioner, like a coloured stone the size of your two thumbs worth as much as a handful of flats in the centre.  A stone most people will never be allowed to see, even in a museum, or even know of.”

“Yeah.”

“However, his skill would be useless were it not guided by a long and passionate adoration of the raw stone itself -- the gentle, coaxing dialogue over its -- potential -- which -- some find akin to madness -- "

“Which is Alex,” John fills in, because Sherlock suddenly cannot.  “Hey.  Look, let the dust settle, and you’ll talk it out.”

“No.” 

“Take it easy, love.  Nobody’s taking anything away from you, now.”

“Mm.” 

“I love you.  So much.  Come here.”

“I’ve made a serious mistake.”

“Yeah, I know.  Come, let me kiss you.”

“It’s likely that my brother actually cares for him.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s -- uhm, well beyond that, by now.  Just saying.”

“Yes.” 

“We’ll work it out.  Okay?  You'll talk.”

“John, I am so _tired_.“

“I know you are.  I know.”

“I can’t see things  --”

“All right.  That’s, uhm.  Not true, at all.  Take it easy.  I need you to take it easy.”

Sherlock waves his phone.  “Lestrade.  Wants to meet soon, some of the officers.  Go along?”

“Sure.”

“All of the changes at the Met, John.  All of the independent experts were removed at once.  To make my lack of involvement less apparent.  In fact.”

“Oh, come on.  I -- uhm.  Serious?”

“Serious.”

“Why.”

“Time to step aside.  The experts will be called back three months after we have moved to Eastbourne.  Supposedly due to public outcry, and so forth.  Lestrade will be better off, then, than now.”

John nods and pulls Sherlock into his arms.

_I don’t deserve you, soldier, I never have.  Your hands --_

They stay that way for a long time, John raking his warm fingers through Sherlock’s mussed hair, his mind drifting to images of their new home, and the things it will mean to them.  All.


	54. Different times

After just over a week, Alex makes a decision to speak to Sherlock, and ask for his house key, which Sherlock has kept in his possession for close to half a year.  Sherlock is nearly surprised to see him downstairs at the door, and isn’t wholly prepared for an emotional confrontation. The flat is half-boxed and a complete minefield, setting him on edge. But he is able to feel a shade of relief, despite the seriousness of his pale, quiet interlocutor; he’d not found an intelligent way to bring things to a head, himself.

“Since you’re moving house and you don’t approve of my relationship with your brother, I think it’s possible you want to disengage yourself altogether.  I don’t know what else I should make of your behaviour,” Alex states, once he is in the living room; he has a calm air as he says, very clearly,  “Perhaps you’d kindly explain why you felt it was necessary to make reference to the state of my health in order to remind your brother of a previous, unsuccessful relationship, when there is no connection between them, aside from certain assumptions of yours, which strike me as irrational, and fearful.  Though of what I cannot determine at this stage.  I would like to hear your side."  

Sherlock blinks; he feels far more affected than Alex looks, which is new.   _The psycholinguistic training for diplomats --_  “Alex.”

“Perhaps I can make this easier.  Do you _want_ to let our friendship go and be done with it?” 

“No, I do not.”

“Fine,” Alex replies, voice quavering slightly as he encounters the limits of his ability to keep himself together.  “You are telling me the truth?  Because things are about to get more complicated.”

“Yes, they are.  I owe you an apology.  Many of them, in fact.  Though it’s no news to you that I’m a complete prick.  I’m sorry.”

(It is the inelegant beginning of a very detailed chat, several cups of tea long, spanning all sorts of ridiculous and not-so-ridiculous events, and reaching into recent days, when they’d not talked or texted, and life had brought change and challenge, nonetheless.  As always.)

“Okay, dear.  Carry on, please tell me why you were so angry, clear it up so I can understand it.”

The truth is involved and uncomfortable.  “When you met my brother, you mentioned that he’d asked you to observe John and me and you thought you might divert him from it.  Or something of the sort.  It occurred to me that my brother might be using you, in part to goad me, which didn’t fit his usual methods.  Furthermore, when I spoke to him about you, he didn’t seem emotionally attached to you in any way.  However, it made all the less sense that he would undertake a scheme of that sort, because I was looking to leave London by then,” Sherlock says, gesturing vaguely at all of the boxes and rapidly-emptying spaces.

“That idea of mine lasted all of five minutes.  I wouldn’t stand a chance at getting anything past him, really,” Alex says.  “You know how it is.”

“Right you are.  Well.  You’ll never shake him off except in death.  Even then, only to a certain extent.  Mm.  Sorry.”

“So be it.”

“Alex.” 

“Sophie says that two Scorpio males will tend to either shag each other to death or try to quietly out-love one another to the death.  What’s not to look forward to, there?”

“Mmmmaking me _sick_.”

“You and your doctor are even further gone, and you know it.  Besides, I don’t go in for astrology, it was a joke.”

“Why didn’t you tell me to piss off, when you should have.  It would have saved you uncounted tears.” Sherlock glances around the room; the rearrangement of his clutter seems to be doing bad things for his nerves, Alex thinks.

“To paraphrase a certain Sherlock Holmes, ‘a very good question.  When should I have told you to piss off?’”

“Two minutes after we met, if not ten seconds.”

“No, I still thought -- no.  Ah-ha-ha!  No, I can’t imagine things any differently.”

Sherlock clears his throat to stop himself smiling.  “Come down, see us there sometimes, it’s scenic, quiet.”

“I might have to, you know.  Show me your place?”  Alex gestures at the laptop on the living room table.

Sherlock scoops it up in one of his beautiful hands.  “Just a moment...here.  Mm.” He starts clicking around.  “There should be -- mm.  Oh.”

Alex’s lips curl up at the corners charmingly.  “Of course we can put it back on all the maps.  If you want.”

“No.  In fact, it looks much better when it’s not here.”

“Yeah, I think so, too.” 

They have what could be described as a moment, or a series of them.  It ends when Sherlock bites his lips and remarks, “Thank him for me.” 

“Or maybe you could make the effort, there.  Well.  We just want you to have some peace and quiet.”

“Mhm.”  Sherlock leans over and snags a pen from the table and writes _Nikita Bogdanov_ on a corner scrap of newspaper in Cyrillic characters.  “Give him this.”

“I’m not comfortable relaying messages between you two right now.”

“He _wants_ this one.  Please.” 

“Okay, if you say so.”

“Your idealised bright-older-aloof partner would have wanted something more.”

“Yeah,” Alex replies.  “I did want that.  And _you_ were against marriage.”  Alex sighs and nods.  “See how life is?  Here we are.”

“That we are.”

“Well.  You see, as a pledge of fidelity, a bit of progress for England, and so forth, yeah, it means a lot, or _would_ mean a lot.  Well.”  Alex moves to start changing the subject; Sherlock squeezes his teeth.  “He went armed again, straight into Buckingham Palace, the day before yesterday, Lord have mercy, he is contrary.  Then again -- were you really there in a bed sheet, once?”

“Yup.”

“You two are _irredeemable_.  But I’d love to have seen it.  And was John there with you?”

“He was.”

“And that he didn’t tear it off of you.”  Alex grins knowingly.

“Different times,” Sherlock answers, chuckling a bit to himself.

“It’s hard to believe, looking at you both, that were ever any other times.  Really.”

Sherlock blinks.  “Thank you.”

***

When Alex climbs into the car, later on, it is almost straight into the lap of the most dangerous man in England ( _“Kitty!”_ ), who flashes one of his wider smiles (exposing pointy canines to their full advantage). 

“I thought you’d still be at the Ministry,” Alex says, grinning back.  “So have the submarines turned up?” 

“As it happened, they weren’t missing, and there was no crisis to speak of.  Unless you count the incontinence of a certain general upon hearing -- well, never mind, now.”  Mycroft pets Alex’s neck and brushes a light kiss against his cheek in greeting once Alex has strapped himself in.  “A tale for a rainy evening.  I see everything is more than fine.”

“Now especially,” Alex answers.  

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Mycroft tells him. 

“One thing, Sherlock wanted me to give you this.” Alex hands him the slip of newsprint with the name of the Russian teen programmer inked on it.

“Audaciously employing you as messenger,” Mycroft mutters, unfolding the little note.  His eyebrow leaps; he quickly taps the paper in behind his pocket square.  “Come home with me.  I have a number of ideas for you,” he says.

“Add them to mine.  I’ve been thinking of our time in Arbon again,” Alex says. 

“Really?”

“Just after --”

“Ah, yes.” 

“And the way that night felt like lucid dreaming near the end.”

Mycroft reaches for Alex’s cheek, bringing him into a kiss he has waited for, far too many hours -- not to say years, were one to count a very well-covered longing for precisely this sort of memories, in this type of scenario.  _All the delight one can bear, and more to come, haven, treasurer of secrets.  An essential point, underpinning all the senses that matter.  Irreplaceable._ He pauses and asks, nerves suddenly too raw, “Alexander, how are you feeling?”

“Attractive,” the artist replies.  “And you feel heavenly.”

***

Sherlock spends six days alone in Eastbourne before John is forced to give in and join him at the weekend; he arrives by cab with two suitcases of smaller personal items and is immediately impressed by the progress in furnishing and unpacking (not entirely behind-the-scenes; he’d got plenty of texts and photographs about it; Sherlock cannot stand to be without his preferred audiences for long).

“Wow,” John says, setting aside the suitcases just inside the door and taking a few steps around, hands curling with excitement.  “Hmm, look at -- wow, the bookcase fits, yeah.  That’s sort of my bookcase?  Those are all my books, aren’t they.  Ha.  And my chair will go there?  This looks good, actually.  I like it.  Love, thank you, this is.”  John nods.  “This.  Hmm.  Made something?  In there?”

“Soup, John.”

“Yeah.  Where...should I sit?”

Sherlock indicates an area just ahead, further back in the house.  “There will be a table here in eight days, and for now we’ll eat in the _orangerie_.  It’s warmer out there at the moment than in the kitchen.  Four Centigrade warmer, even without full sun.  Lately.  So.  Have a look.”

“Oh,” John says, peering at the kitchen window and beyond the greenhouse.  Those are the -- pigeon cages.  Out there.”

“Yes.  I’ll introduce you.”

“Junk everywhere.”

“To be collected tomorrow morning.”

“When are the hives -- starting?”

“In ten days.  Once the garden and house are more liveable.”

“Where should I eat?”

“On the _chaise longue_ , for now.”

“Join me, love?” John continues to wander around, patting at things and biting his lips.  “I like it.  I don’t know what to say.  It’s -- great.  How’s the bedroom looking?”

Sherlock takes his arm.  “I want to kiss you.  Hold still.”

“See, and I’m looking at decor.  Hi, you beautiful creature,” John says, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist.  “I like this place.  I’m about to call in sick at work and tell them, sorry, can’t, need my phoenix -- now -- wh - at -- is -- in there?  Hm -- that --”  John’s eyes have fallen on the form of something leaned against one wall of the bedroom.  “Heh."

“Yes.  _That_ is...a replica assault rifle.  Unrelated to the pigeons, soldier, it’s for Airsoft games.”

“Hell yeah,” John growls, and strides over to it.  “When and where.”

“There’s a larger group in Brighton, a few smaller teams in the area.  You’ll choose one.”

“This.  Love, thank you.  Jesus.  You know, I’ll have something for you, too.  Us.”

“That I can see.”

“Nah, no --“ John giggles and examines the rifle while licking his lips excitedly.  “I -- uhm, I bought something for our house but it’s on backorder still.  Coming all the way from Romania."

“Oh?”

“This.  _This_ is bloody amazing,” John remarks, nodding at the rifle as he sets it on the bed and shakes a finger at it.  “Yeah.  Three questions and one guess.  Something...nice.”

Sherlock hums and looks at John more carefully.  “It’s a proper bathtub, John.”

“Ehhh.  Come on.  How did you know!”

“A contextual cue.”  Sherlock draws nearer and closes his hand over John’s growing erection.

“Shouldn’t deny it, I guess,”  John snorts.  “Self-defeating.  Where’s that soup, then?” He picks up the gun again and wanders into the greenhouse behind Sherlock, looking more lively than he has in weeks. 

 _This has the potential to become an archetypal household scene,_ Sherlock decides minutes later, sinking his teeth into an apple as he watches John on the _chaise longue_ , running the fingers of one hand over the spring-loaded rubberised grip and sipping happily at a bowl of potato and chicken chowder with the other.  John will have a similar thought when Sherlock goes out to the garden with his apple core and chuckles as three pigeons flap around his hand to peck at it; a fourth lands on his shoulder and stares down at the others like a rook. 


	55. Thrice airborne

Blissful months pass, as they will, nearly unmarked.  But time is felt anew.  And even lovers remember that _forever_ is a chimera, at least on Earth. 

A new strain of aviary flu rages through the Isles and the Continent.  It is compared by many to the early period of the 1918 pandemic; however, this virus is an act of biological terror:  the _thrice airborne blight_ has come.  It has arrived by passenger plane; it has been maliciously passed to populations of birds; it survives in the air (when one coughs or sneezes) for slightly longer than analogous, better-understood viruses. 

Mycroft is one of a handful of experts and officials who know the very laboratory the virus has come from; the staff have been kidnapped and tortured, their formulae and records recovered and sent to selected laboratories for reverse engineering and research.  The method of dispersal is astonishingly simple, considering the amount of disease unleashed:  those responsible have purposely infected inner-city populations of pigeons, creating a plague-like spread through the dysentery of those so-called ‘flying rats’ and other urban birds. 

The emergency steps bring little progress, the clean-up measures are controversial and costly, the stakes inestimable.  The whole truth is carefully hidden, lest it spur a holy war in the streets of no fewer than five European capitals, where ethnic tensions are already at critical after a ‘competing’ terror cell claims online to have introduced the virus, sending officials scrambling right and left to deny the unnatural origins of the outbreak, more or less convincingly. 

Initially, it seems that the greatest risk is to those in larger cities.  However, John will soon see the first patients with dangerously high fevers and vomiting in Eastbourne; the regional hospitals and clinics are jammed and he takes on extra hours, riding on flu shots, boosters and a bit of random, oft-incomplete prayer to get through.  The majority of serious cases and deaths are among small children, the elderly, and the chronically ill, who more quickly become dehydrated and experience sudden complications from fever including kidney failure and breathing issues, though it claims healthy citizens in the prime of life, too.  John counts on the safety of their relatively remote home.  Because of the violent gastro-intestinal symptoms John is seeing and hearing of he asks Sherlock repeatedly not to go to town when he can avoid it, though he rarely does, anyhow.  They text more frequently than ever; John needs his love and thoughts. 

Mycroft has urged Sherlock to keep his well-loved trained bird flock locked in their hutches, and to stay away from them.  Sherlock is loath to listen to _that_.  What Mycroft doesn’t add, certain that his brother would travel to London in a crowded train in a heartbeat (with unfulfillable demands), is that in spite of all the pains he has taken, his meticulous planning, the privileges of his position and the cocooning depths of his admiration, he is swiftly losing his own little dove -- of all hellish ironies, to complications of the virus he analyses the impact, cost, spread and implications of -- in ultra secret sittings, hastily called summits and emergency meetings, straight through many nights.  Alex doesn’t even know of _that_ endearment -- it has never been uttered.  Now, the pitiless odds declare that Alex will never know of it.  

A tumbler of forty-year-old liquor stands in front of Mycroft ( _what will it matter, tonight_ ) and he imagines tearing his office to pieces in retribution for its vile silence, akin to the reticence, which Mycroft knows has been far more revealing of his character than all the simple words he has kept in check, so long, toward so many, for _hell knows what end_.  Or what occasion.  Due to deep anxiety over a _word_ greater than he is, and it is not _essential_.  Now, when Mycroft’s only treasure under the sun is unable to draw a breath on his own, independent of a respirator, and his vitals are being sucked further and further beneath the lowest norms, he would shout it all through any hall, before any crowd, and he would not care in the least. _That thing divine, of description which makes it less, it is what we feel, but dare not define, what we know -- yet shall not express._ It is two in the morning.  He sips and reads, and recalls in every detail (even the chair has been left in _that_ place), again:

_“Come out from there.  A proper kiss and I’ll go.”_

_“No, a proper kiss and you won’t go.  One more memo.  Ah, yes, regarding Bulgarian grain and the issue of the Turks.  And look at this, perhaps this is of interest.”_

_“Oh.  Who was he?”_

_“He removed a seriously wounded Capitan John Hamish Watson to safety under fire in Afghanistan.  I believe you’ve met his son and his former partner, Linda Snow, who is about to become engaged to the Met’s own Gregory Lestrade?”_

_“Oh!  Wonderful!  Decorated posthumously, then?  Of course he should be.  Imagine how happy his family will be, and John, too, a vindication, isn’t it.”_

_“Your idea, I believe.”_

_“No, kitty.  Such a superb revision could only come by your hand.”_

_“I’m leaving for Oslo in just under two hours, take the car home and rest.”_

_“Leaving -- so quickly?”_

_“A change of itinerary.  We’ll have type four communication.  The procedure, if you should experience any discomfort?”_

_“Yes, darling.  I --”_

_“Do not delay.  It’s imperative that you call at the first sign of any sustained headache or dizziness, fever, kidney or liver pain, dysentery or vomiting, and so forth.  You will report to a medical officer immediately.”_

_“I’ll miss you every minute.”_

_“Chin up, it’s not long, and no tears.”_

_“It’s an eternity.  You know what I’ll want.”_

_“Naturally.”_

_“So please bring yourself back safely for it.”_

Flying over Germany while returning to London four days later, Mycroft had suddenly received six delayed messages, including two from Alex:  in one, he had texted about the beginnings of a fever, planning to observe it to see if it isn’t related to an interaction between medications.  The second is a recording (his voice is slow, nose congested -- )  ‘ _I don’t know where this is.  Not near London, is it.  But they came for me in about five minutes.  I wanted to tell you that I have -- I -- never had the good fortune of knowing anyone as wonderful as you, and thank you for everything you have done.  So far, that is.  And -- for your love.  Keep me in your thoughts.  I’m sorry to be recording such important things, in such a silly fashion.  Just know.  I love you.  Goodbye for now, ginger kitty, do stay well’_.  Another, from a medical officer, is three terse lines long, followed by another, even graver. 

Mycroft’s fury is unutterable.  Four careers lie in ashes within seconds; another dozen or so hang on fraying threads.  It is clear enough:  Alex had waited far too long (days rather than hours) before calling for help but had said goodbye.  Properly.  As he’d once been asked to.  The remaining messages are grim as well; there is a nest of politically-manufactured chaos in Whitehall that will need vetting to the ground, in better days.  Should they come.  _Blast them all._ “Radio ahead to Hamburg,” Mycroft had told the pilot, icily.  “Refuel, and to Zurich.”

***

In the cover of darkness of a dreadful night, in an unnumbered wing of an undisclosed military hospital in the southwest of England, Mycroft arrives, masked.  His visit will go unheard.  The fever is merciless, the danger of internal haemorrhage and organ damage critical.  As so many times before, Mycroft urges his only friend to _listen_.  He has one more card in his pocket.*  

“Well, then.  You’ll read it another day.  You see, you’re rushing things, Alexander.  I’ve flown in a little something for you tonight, this time from Geneva.”   _All late, far too late._

The serum is brand new; it hasn’t even been given a name.  It is beyond secret.  And experimental enough to be life-threatening to a heart patient, even in the best of times; it is a terrible toss-up.  In the absence of next of kin, Mycroft orders it done, closely supervises its administration and leaves.

* [In impeccable calligraphy on a simple, ivory card with a blue border]

_To my little dove.  Preferred fragments from Plato’s Phaedrus:_

_And thus he loves, but he knows not what; he does not understand and cannot explain his own state; he appears to have caught the infection of blindness from another [...] [T]hey pass out of the body, unwinged, but eager to soar, and thus obtain no mean reward of love and madness. For those who have once begun the heavenward pilgrimage may not go down again to darkness and the journey beneath the earth, but they live in light always, happy companions in their pilgrimage, and when the time comes at which they receive their wings they have the same plumage because of their love._

__________

He writes a severe denunciation of the three laboratories he has just visited for surprise progress audits (their work exemplary of the lopsided research foci in Europe in relation to epidemics, on fifteen converging points) and passes it all on to be read at a sitting he elects not to be sober enough to attend the following day.  He composes a phone call to his brother, and then attempts to drown every word, repeatedly. 

His desolation is cavernous.  

Therefore imagine the exquisiteness and enormity of this saturnine man’s joy ( _impossible!)_ when the serum begins to _work_.  Upon receiving the news while away in Brussels, he stands and exits an emergency global health summit without a word; his behaviour is interpreted by international participants as a demonstration of impatience with the corporation presenting what are rumoured to be deliberately-delayed research findings; a dozen or so other officials exit after him; a break is called which becomes an embarrassing cessation of proceedings, as more participants stream out of the hall in response to the first commentaries online.  Thus the elder Holmes has managed to wreck an international event -- nearly thirty years later in life than his brother, but in grand style, nonetheless:  pharmaceuticals dive on world indexes, precious metal prices surge in a trading pandemonium; the financial fallout is given the tongue-in-cheek hashtag _#aviandroppings_ and leads to calls in the European parliament to draft new epidemiological research priorities; Mycroft’s fifteen-point recommendation is waved about (under a ridiculous pen name that nobody understands the irony of nor has the good sense to verify).   T-shirts emblazoned _‘I am down with #aviandroppings’_ are all over the EP, worn ostentatiously to meetings with the press (for the minimum three days of political show-and-declare).

When Mycroft touches down in England, Alex has just begun struggling against the tube in his throat; it is soon removed so that he has oxygen alone (astonishing his doctors).  He cannot make a sound.  He is not awake for long at a time; his eyes are wide and wet, as though he were screaming inside.  His cognitive functions are deemed satisfactory.  Some days later he will hold up, on a bit of scratch paper, ‘ _Keep’_ \-- of all things, regarding a trim, burnt-auburn beard that Mycroft has taken to wearing after a certain unmentionable long weekend.

The same day the second-to-last IV is removed and Alex stands up from his bed again to shuffle about with the help of a strong-armed male nurse, under the keen eyes of his ginger kitty (who can hardly wait anymore to hold him), Jozef Kováč’s flock of nine trained birds succumbs to the virus. 

***

Sherlock buries his pets, one by one, with his heart in his throat.  They’d all had names, after Old Slavic pagan gods.  His favourite, a pure black one with a single white wing, ‘devil’, who’d often ridden his shoulder around the garden like a macaw and tickled his earlobes, he buries last. 

He collapses in the garden near his hives less than twenty-four hours later.  The sudden lack of texts that afternoon is enough to bring John home by bike, despite a rain.

_How are things, love?_

_Outside?  It’s pouring.  Text me when you’re in._

_Call, beautiful, I want to hear how you are._

_OK love?_

_Coming back in 30_

Already exhausted by extra shifts, John is devastated by what he sees.

“Love, how long have you -- oh fuck.  Oh, no.  No, no, okay, it’s not your fault, I’ll -- okay.”

“I’m -- sorry.  I can’t.”

John mistakenly believes he has carried the virus to Sherlock; he knows nothing about their dead pets, yet.  All he has to go on is the deplorable truth in front of him:  his beautiful husband is soaked, curled up on the floor in the bathroom, his kidneys hurting so much he is moaning, his stomach in spasms with uncontrollable vomiting.  He has the smell of blood in his mouth and cannot stand on his own.  His fever is high enough that John measures it three times, in different places, to be sure he is seeing it right.  “Jesus, your head is hot.  Holy shhhhhit....”

_S is down.  102.6 and rising.  John_

_Do not hospitalise.  Monitor and update.  MH_

***

“Come, beautiful, you have to drink something.  Even if it comes up, you have to.  For me.  For me, a little, right?  It’s warm...yeah.  See.  You know, I love you.  So much.  Take it easy, now.  We’ll need to change all your clothes, stripping this off, all right?  Sorry, it’s for the fever, I know it’s awful.”

Sherlock’s fingers have swollen and he panics when John tells him to remove his ring, thinking John is angry about their birds. 

“Hey now, take it easy.  Here.  Just.  Can you wait right here?  I’m bringing you another shirt. Stay in here.”

John quickly puts the ring on a piece of garden twine and lets him wear it around his neck so Sherlock will quiet down.  It reminds him of a scene from a sick bay near Kandahar -- a bloke who’d lost his arm to the elbow crying in a fever that he can’t feel his wedding ring.  John tucks the ring into Sherlock’s (silk, collarless, favourite, red) shirt and comes to a certain crisis of his own, out in the greenhouse, alone.  He cuts some wood to put in the stoves to keep the air dry and warm and talks himself through it all.  Sherlock tries to answer some of what he says, or John wouldn’t even notice when he’s at it.  He keeps guard, determined that his phoenix will not burn away on his watch.  But he is not improving at all; it is as though his immune system is fighting against him and not for him.  John sends texts every four hours round the clock, Mycroft’s direction, and hears little in return. 

***

On the fourth morning after the illness had set in, precisely when John is pacing about, after making several dozen calls all morning to try to get a hospital bed for his phoenix, he receives a visitor, who he nearly slams the door on:  a sober, boxy gentleman in an expensive suit and an earpiece.  He has brought a tiny vial and sterile syringe in a very cold, digitally-locked, bullet-proof case which the unshaven and red-eyed soldier cannot tell a soul about and the story behind which he will never know.

                _2A6HH49L  MH_

_OK got it.  103.1  John_

_Administer immediately.  Update.  MH_

_What is it?_

_Need info what is it?_

But most importantly, thanks to his elder brother (who has chosen to give over his own vial), Sherlock will be sure to keep his promise to his beautiful John _no matter what_ , as he insists repeatedly, delirious, when he thinks he’s seen his soldier cleaning and loading his gun at the foot of their bed.  _Will not leave you behind.  Will not._   

“Love.  Up.  Listen to me.  You need to sit up.  Arm.  Make a fist, can’t see your vein -- okay.  No, this way.  Can you -- just.  Love, sit up, all right?  I need to give you an injection.  Sit still, love --”

“You -- do it and I’ll wait here.”

“Nope, nope.  Need your arm for this one.  Good, love.”

“Don’t.” 

“Love you, you know?”

“I.  Don’t want --”

“All right, you okay?”

“I don’t want that.”

“It will help.  Arm, come on.”

“No.  Let me sleep, soldier.”

“Looking for a...vein, here.  This is going to be cold.”

“Argggh.  Not that.”

“I know, sorry.  Sorry.  There.  I’m bringing something to drink.  Stay in bed, okay?  No, stay down, you’ll lose it.  Hey.  I’ll be right back, listen to me, I’ll tell you another story.  And you keep listening, okay?  In here.  So, uhm.  When I was a kid.  Are you listening?  Hear me, in there?”

“Mm.”

“When I was a kid Harry and I had a dog.  A bulldog mix with one blind blue eye we called Balor from one of our books, you know.  The Irish monster.  With one eye.  Listening?  He followed me home from school and we kept him.  Hmmm, hmm.  Hmmm.  Hey, now, you listening?”

“Mhm.”

“So.  He was a stray.  But someone had trained him so when you told him to play dead he’d roll on his back and stare at you with the one good eye and he would get all happy, just staring and sort of panting, like an owl, upside down.  Not panting like an owl, just.  Bollocks -- hmm.  Yeah.  Owls pant?  They do, crows do.  When it’s -- never mind.  No.  Here I am.  Back.  Drink this.  Hey.  If you want me to finish the story you have to drink this.  It’s that electrolyte replenishment shit, you know but I put some honey in it for you.  Just slow.  Slow-ly.  Sip at a time.  Right.  All right.  Love you, you know?  Hmm?  You do know.  Sip again?  So, where was I.  Oh, yeah.  Like an owl.  Right, and not doing a very convincing job of being dead.  But he’d follow us to school and go back, and sometimes when we came out of school he’d be playing around outside and he’d escort us home.  Loyal.  Really, always loved us.  Barked at my dad, though, he hated that.  He was a good dog, funny old guy.  Sometimes I think I’d like another one.  Sometime.  Hey, there.  Come over here, you’re all cold, aren’t you.  Another sip?  Come, love, I’ll pet you a little.  So.  Uhmmm.  What else could he do, let me remember.  He -- sort of drank water and snorted like a pig, because of his nose, you know.  It would come right out his nose and he’d drink it.  We thought that was bloody hilarious.  Yeah.  Oh, hey.  Hey, now.  Jesus.  Hey.  You ‘kay?  Sleeping -- ?  Uhm.  Hey, now.  Wh -- uhm.  Hold on for me, love.  Jesus Christ.  What did I just give you.  Jesus.  What.  Fuck.  Ffffffuck.  Oh my God, God, help us.  Please.  Not this.  _No tricks, please_... _shit_...!  Love, stay with me.  We’re doing this.  You’re staying with me on this, we’re -- you know.  Aren’t we, love.  Yeah.  And you’re _not doing this_.  Can’t.  Not doing this.  Hmmm...Christ.  If this is a fucking trick.  God, no.  Nope.”

_What was that, answer_

_Is he sleeping?  MH_

_Yes whats going on!!!!!_

_Monitor for seizures, update when < 101.  MH_

_What was it_

“Jesus fucking Chriiiiist!”

***

 _What do we say about coincidence?_  Mycroft and John are spared from illness.  Their cocktail of inoculations, natural health and iron resolve seem to have worked their own wonders, somehow. 

“Medical miracles.  _Pshaw._   In the absence of well-gathered statistical data, sixty-eight percent of the time you use ‘miracle’ as if it had explanatory power,” Sherlock will point out to Alex, on Skype, when they’re both well enough to chat online again.  “What’s wrong with your eyes?  Not that I have to ask.  It’s obvious.  My brother’s been talking about his musical preferences again.”

“No, I finally got round to re-watching that _Blade Runner_ film and don’t _even_ _try_  to tell me you don’t get upset, I know you do, when -- Lord, he is so _beautiful_ , I just _can’t_ \--“

“Mmm.  Who?”

 _“’I’ve -- seen things you people...wouldn’t believe’_ ,” John growls, and makes some sputtering sounds, off-camera, just behind Sherlock.

"John --!"

Alex titters and wipes his eyes.  “Hi, John!  Oh.  Sherlock, dear, I need to go for now.  Would you like to speak to Mycroft?  He’s just back from work.  Oh, come now.  Wouldn’t you, for a moment?”

“Another time.  Say something from me.”

“I’ll tell him _hello_ from you.  Goodbye, for now.”

“Hello,” comes Mycroft’s voice from off-camera. 

“Good afternoon, brother,” Sherlock replies.

The last thing Sherlock sees, as Alex shuts off the camera, is the way he has glanced up with an unreasonable expression he usually reserves for a sandy-haired actor -- _from those James-something-or-other films._   _Oh, for God’s sake, man._  

Sherlock reads and types for a while and then gets up to look for John; his soldier cannot get by lately without some quiet time, first alone, and then reconnecting in each other’s arms.  He’d got far too scared.  He knows more than ever that they are incredibly fortunate, even privileged, and doesn’t know what else to do with all of his feelings, at times. 

But the reconnecting is reassuring, warm and deep, like John’s kisses and the force of his touch.

“Hmmmm, hey, beautiful.  Sorry, almost fell asleep.  you ‘kay?”

“Mhm, come, John.”

“Ehhh, tickles.  Are _you_ going in for a beard, too, or?  Noooo.”

“No, I’m embracing friction.”

“Huh?  Yeah, well, wherever you read _that_ they probably didn’t think to mention shredded chins and _necks_?  No?  Jeeee -- sus.  Come here, now, head here, hmmm, beautiful creature.  Did you finish the bit about the -- fungal -- what was it -- trails?”

“Fungal trails on decomposed facial tissues -- the first half of the text.  Completed.  You’ll choose which one we send in for the conference in Dusseldorf, next May, mmm?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Read it through?”

“Yeah, sure.  Hmm.  You are -- let’s -- just -- untie this, here -- and.  Embrace some friction.”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Want it -- ?”

“Y - mmmmm -- _like that_ \-- y - es -- hnnnn --“

***

One day, Alex sends along a snapshot; it follows a suspiciously long period of silence from Mycroft’s side.  Taken during the arrangement of an upcoming exhibition ( _at that likely-world-renowned institution with a familiar-sounding name_ ) it is a study in absence versus presence.  Brother dear is ( _hurriedly!_ ) dressed in a white button-down shirt ( _no waistcoat!_ ) and woolen trousers; his gold _chaîne de montre_ is clipped ( _casually!_ ) to a belt loop; going by its position, he had not clipped it there, himself -- _he would pull out his watch from the left pocket but has not bothered to move it_.  He is umbrella-less; the ring on his finger (a reminder of the costliness of foolhardy sentiment) is gone.  He is peering contemplatively through Alex’s tortoiseshell magnifying eyeglasses at a thick sheaf of papers in his hand.  The artist is standing at his side, quietly handsome in jeans and his favourite blue jacket, lapel speared with the bold, Victorian swallow pin he’d worn to Sherlock’s and John’s wedding; he is more silvery in the fringe, now ( _the very embodiment of éminence grise_ ), gesturing emphatically at a point on a shared page, eyebrows raised slightly, soft mouth frozen mid-word. 

And Mycroft’s father’s gold ring is _on his right hand_.  _Oh.  Oh!_   _Sized down for his slender finger_ \-- Sherlock huffs, snatches up his phone and composes a text.

_Take proper care of my brother’s heart or I will sketch your internal organs.  SH_

_Put down that pencil, Sherlock :))))) OMG I miss you.  Alex_

_So turn on Skype and prove you’re alive and well. I have my doubts.  SH_

_Tomorrow, usual time, OK? :)  Alex_

John walks by, carefully balancing a steaming mug of pekoe in one hand and over-sweetened coffee in the other -- the latter of which he plunks down by Sherlock.  He glances over his friend’s shoulder at the laptop screen.  “Heh, yup,” he remarks, placing a quick kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, as if in solace, on his way to the greenhouse.

 _“Not shagging!”_ Sherlock snarls, waving his hands and nearly upsetting his mug.

“You’re right.  Come out here and let’s do something about that.  Stove is lit.”

Well, then.  How could one refuse?  Sherlock slaps shut the laptop, picks up his mug, and slinks out after John.  (Pretending he needs consoling always does the trick; today will be no exception.)

Indeed, Sherlock misses his friend very much, particularly when he is in the mood to draw, though they continue to text and Skype regularly.  Alex is quite busy as a fine illustrator, valued satirist (ridiculously dubbed ‘the last true wielder of iron gall’) and prized portraitist for the peerage, when he isn’t standing in as the heart of the British government or taking said government aside for a gentle chat and far less gentle kisses in secured quarters to soothe them both.  To say the fate of England is in his hands, much of the time, is no understatement.  Sherlock is able to find _that_ fact comforting, though he will never entirely understand why Alex would willfully guarantee himself a life of extreme tedium, much as the elder Holmes brother cannot comprehend the enduring, ever-increasing appeal of John Watson.

But.   _To each his own._

That statement alone indicates that a carefully orchestrated velvet revolution between the brothers is underway.  John has been observing it for months already but is afraid to bring it up with Sherlock, lest it set off a mischievous streak.  But he is positive someone is sweetly working things in their favour.  A case in point:  through that _someone’s_ gentle insistence, John and Sherlock (should not but do) now own a device that decommissions currently-known drone technologies in the area of their home.  Sometimes when he is outdoors, John’s eyes fall on it:  it is a small, conical object on their roof that means _intimacy_ , at least more than they’ve ever had before as a couple.  Thus the old _chaise longue_ in their _orangerie_ has quickly become their favourite place to make love, day or night. 

Nights in particular are magical, there.  They’ve noticed that when the moon is fuller, its light falls in stripes over the concrete floor, bent like longitudinal lines.  And when the smell of the sea blows in it feels almost exotic; the glow of the moon covers the back of John’s head as he smothers Sherlock in kisses, growling beneath their blankets.  John still does remarkably well with French, when the mood strikes.  And it does, when the weather is fair; he bikes home from work (he has a few hours twice a week), and arrives full of endorphins, drops into the grass, brings Sherlock down onto his chest and pushes his tongue gently into his mouth, licking at him and smiling against his lips, which are often sticky sweet.  Soon, many times, they loosen their buttons; their hands and legs tangle as they kiss and move against each other, looking for friction (and yes, outdoor frots and hand-jobs are _way_ hotter than they’d imagined them, as part of bedtime stories, back in London).  When he mows, John likes to keep the grass nice and long in a few places, for the bees and for the two of them. 

Sherlock’s little wolf runs wild in the woods, as well -- most Saturdays, as part of his Airsoft club, where he fires harmless kill shots at two doctors, a property developer, a sales manager and three other combat-experienced men very much like himself.  And they do the same right back.  He is usually able to laugh about it.  It helps.  A lot.  The two little trophies (for marksmanship) he has got already don’t hurt the ego, either.

In all that coastal silence, the simple, organic unity in _things_ and the sight of his little workers dancing over a new-found patch of nearby clover often move Sherlock to the core, nearly as much as seeing how openly happy John is to be there with him, every day.  He is content, his headaches are abating.  Perhaps, someday, his nightmares will become less distinct.  He is writing a rambling series of adventure stories about them both, some of which embellish the truth, others of which hide it, but all of which are a tribute to his bloody hot, amazing genius of a phoenix, whose dearest person in the world loves him, to _madness_.

_“Take that off you?”_

_“Mmmm.”_

_“Come here.  What’s that, hiding something from me?”_

_“Give me your mouth, soldier.”_

_“What’ve you got?  Hmmm, seriously, already?  There’s that much honey again?”_

_“They’re incredible.”_

_“Like it?”_

_“Taste this one.”_

_“Hey, now, not on my nose.  Hmmm.  Wow, that’s -- good.  Come here, you gorgeous -- hmm, are you naked under that?  Hey -- you are.  You can’t just --”_

_“Well --“_

_“Come, love, step out of that.  Jesus, they’re still -- crawling on it -- ehhh.  You planned this?  You did.  Chaise longue, right now.”_

_“And you started without me.”_

_“Watching you from here, just wanted to come out and throw you on the ground again.”_

_“Why didn’t you.”_

_“Knew you’d come in.”_

_“Yes, I wanted to kiss you and share honey with you.”_

_“Yeah.  Kiss me like that again, that felt bloody good.”_

_“Mmmm.  Writing?”_

_“Yeah.  Read it back to me tonight before bed?”_

_“Of course.  A promising plotline, going by the state of -- you.”_

_“It’s still in Paris for now, but in this bit we’re running away from the agents and we’ve lost them, we’re flat on our stomachs on a rooftop, I’ve got my rifle cocked, and we’re watching the ground, and we both really need to get off.”_

_“Oh?  Is there a murder --“_

_“No, not this time, we go up there because we need a lay of the area -- and we sort of lose control and you start talking about how you want it and then -- show you -- ?  Hmm?  You suck me off while I try to train the rifle and finally --”_

_“Oh.  J -- ohn -- J -- mmmmm, yes.“_

_“Honey tasted amazing, let’s put some of that -- there -- “_

_“Hnnn --”_

_“Love you so much.  You know what you are to me. Heh, you do.”_

_“Yes.”_

_____

_FINIS_

_______

“The Cafe” - Illustration by _khorazir_ who has given incredible visual expression to twelve scenes of Part 1 

(more: http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/sketchy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to _hamstermoon_ for giving this series such beautiful cover art, and to _khorazir_ for her illustrations to Part 1. Her drawings are bold but never too heavy-handed; her pencil sketches are magical and suggestive. What I wish above all to express is my appreciation for the way she maintains a beautiful balance between invitation and narration to the viewer. 
> 
> Part 3 - “A Bleeding Heart in Longhand” - is a parallel account of events through the eyes of Alexander Nussbaum, beginning at ~ Ch. 70 of Part 1. 
> 
> Part 4 - "In Keeping" - a continuation of Sketchy-verse, with Sherlock & John in Eastbourne and Mycroft & Alex in London. 
> 
> Best wishes  
> 


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